UC-NRLF 


SB    E7    553 


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BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR  : 

SONNETS  OF  HEREDIA  RENDERED  INTO 
ENGLISH,  Third  Edition  • 

MOODS  AND  OTHER  VERSE,  out  of  print  ; 

VISIONS  AND  OTHER   VERSE. 


INTO  THE  LIGHT  AND  OTHER  VERSE 


NTO  THE  LIGHT 

AND  OTHER  VERSE 

BY  EDWARD  ROBESON  TAYLOR 


SAN    FRANCISCO 

laplor  Company 

MCM  VI 


Copyright  1906 

by  EDWARD  ROBESON  TAYLOR 


Printed  by 

3Thr  ^tanlrr  tTarlor  Companr 
San  Francisco 


TO    THE    MUSE 

MY    LONG-LOVED    MUSE,    DO   THOU 
ATTEND   ME    KINDLY   NOW: 

LEAD   ME  ALONG  THE   DEVIOUS   PATHS  OF   RHYME 
TO    HELICON'S  UNFAILING  SPRINGS, 
WHERE    POESY   WITH    SPLENDENT   WINGS, 

AND    DOWERED    TO    SOAR    BEYOND    THE    REACH    OF    TIME, 
HER   BANNERED  GLORY   FLINGS 
ABOVE  ALL  COMMON   THINGS, 

AND  WHERE  THROUGHOUT   HER  SACRED   GROVE 
MY   FANCY'S  TROOP   IS   FREE  TO   ROVE. 
OH,   CHIDE    ME   NOT  THAT   I   SHOULD   DARE 
TO    BUILD  SUCH    CASTLE    IN   THE  AIR, 
WHEREFROM    MY   DREAMS  WERE   WONT  TO    PEER 
ON    LIFE'S  VAST    MAZE  THIS   MANY  A  YEAR, 

IN    HOPE  THAT  THEY    IN   SOME    EMBODIED  STRAIN 

MIGHT  ASK  THY   GREAT  APPROVAL   NOT    IN   VAIN; 
FOR  SHOULD   NO  THOUGHT  OF   ME  OR    MINE 
THY  UNRELENTING    BOSOM   STIR, 
THOU   STILL  WOULDST   BE  TO    ME   DIVINE, 
I   STILL  WOULD    BE  THY  WORSHIPPER. 


384653 


THE    POET    TO    HIMSELF 

O   FOOLISH   ONE,  WHY  CRAVE  THE  ORPHEAN   LYRE? 

CANST  THOU   AWAKE    ITS   HEART-DELIGHTING  STRAINS, 

OR   HOPE,  WITH  ALL  THE   CUNNING  OF  THY   PAINS, 

TO  SHAKE  THE  SOUL  WITH   THUNDERS  OF  THINE    IRE? 

AND  SHOULDST  THOU   STRIKE  THE  CHORDS  OF  ALL   DESIRE, 
AH,  WHO  WOULD   PAUSE  TO   LISTEN?— GREEDS,  AND  GAINS, 
AND  OSTENTATION'S   PRIDE,   CHOKE  VIRTUE'S  VEINS,    * 
WHILE  SPIRITUAL  THINGS  UNWEPT   EXPIRE.     .     .     . 

SUCH    WORDS    LACK   SPICE    OF    WISDOM:     WOULDST   THOU    DARE 
TO   GIVE   LIFE'S   ROSE    IN    KEEPING  OF   DESPAIR, 
OR  FEAR  THE   MUSE   HER   MEMORIED   HAUNTS  MAY  FLY? 

THE   WORLD    IS  ALWAY   BETTER  THAN    IT  SEEMS, 
AND    IF,   INDEED,  A   MESSAGE    IN   THEE   LIE, 
SOME   ONE    IS   HOPING   FOR   IT   IN    HIS   DREAMS. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

DEDICATION:    TO  THE  MUSE           ...  v 
THE  POET  TO  HIMSELF               ....           vii 

UNDER  THE  PINE          .             .                          .             .  1 

Into  the  Light                   .              .             .             .  .3 

Not. Dead        .             .             .             .             .             .  21 

Impromptu  in  Response  to  the  Question:    What  is 

Poetry?                     '    .             .             .             .  .22 

Meditation       ......  23 

The  Generations                .             .             .           '•-'.  .          24 

Ghosts              .             .              .             .              .            . .  25 

Night  and  Day     .  ...          26 

Hope               .:•            .              .             .             .             .  26 

The  Soul  .  .  .  ,  v.          27 

Four  in  One                 .             .             .             .             .  27 

Death        .             .             .             .              .              .  .28 

Not  for  Death             .             .             .             .             .  28 

Vacancy                  .             .             .             .              .  .          29 

Question          ......  30 

O  Moment  Stay!               .             .             .              .  .          31 

Light  in  Darkness      .              .              .              ...  32 

The  New  Year     .              .              .              .              .  .33 

Memory's  Bells  34 


IX 


UNDER    THE    PINE  —  Continued 

Dream  Music        .  .             .              .             .    "       :'  .          35 

A  Day  with  Music     .  .                        •  .              .                 36 

The  Divine  Order  .             .             .             .             .          37 

The  Divine  Harmony  .             .             .             .                 38 

To  a  Marble  Statuette  of  Beatrice         ...          39 

Beauty              .              .  .             .           •  .             .                 40 

Life's  Blend         V  .             .                          .             .  «t       41 

The  Poem       .             .  .             .            \  _          .                42 

Life's  Jewels         .  .             .              .              .             .42 

Riches               .              .  .             .                           .                 42 

Ambition                 .  .              ...                       43 

Murmurings  in  the  Darkness  .             .             .                 44 

The  Mystic            .  45 

Love  Not  Dead          .  .                                                       45 

Optimism               .  46 

In  All  the  Days          .  .                           ,,.                             47 

The  Strangeness  of  it  .              ...                                     48 

Remembrance              .  .                                                         49 

Resolution              .    •  .                                                                50 

Not  Envy        .  50 

Life  and  Death    .  51 

Imprisoned      .  51 

The  True  Course  .             .           ,  •             •  .       52 


UNDER    THE    PINE  —  Continued 

The  Happiness  of  this  World           .  53 

Christmas  Bells    .             .  54 

UNDER    THE    BAY         ....  57 

On  Looking  at  a  Picture  of  Wordsworth  .                       59 

To  Tennyson               .  60 

Swinburne            r.  61 

To  Walter  Savage  Landor                             . '  62 

Heredia  Dead      ...  -  63 

To  James  Russell  Lowell     .  64 
Professor  Joseph  Le  Conte  at  Yosemite,  July  4-6,  1901      65 

Henry  George            .  66 

Pope           ....             .  .  67 

Christopher  Smart     »              .  67 

Oscar  Wilde          .             .             .,         ......  .              •          68 

The  Music  of  Words             .                          .  69 

UNDER   THE    CYPRESS      .             .             .  .71 

Invocation  to  the  Muse         .  73 

From  Joy  to  Woe         *  .  74 

The  Kiss  of  Peace     .             ...  .                74 

Dreams     ...  .75 

With  Sorrow     '                       .             .             .  '  .                76 

The  Fog  Rolls  In            ....  77 

Mourn  Not  78 


XI 


UNDER    THE    CYPRESS  —  Continued 

To  Death               .             .             .  .                           ,79 

The  Tomb  and  the  Rose      .  .             .             .                80 

In  the  Cemetery  of .             .              .          81 

Reconciliation              .             .  .                                            83 

RAMBLINGS     .  ....          85 

Boat  Song       .              .             .  .             .             .                 87 

My  Secret              .              .             .  .             .             .88 

The  Lady's  Answer                .  .             .             .                 89 

My  Lady  Sleeps                .              .  .                           .    .       90 

Song    .              .              .             .  .            '•'.             .                 91 

The  Rose  ......          91 

In  the  Convent  Garden          .  .             .             .                 92 

A  Waif      .              .              .              .  '  .             .             .93 

An  Opera  Cloak        .              .  .             .             .                 94 

In  Memory            .              .              .  .             .             .95 

Come  Near  Me  When  I  Sleep  .             .                             96 

Cleopatra                .             .             .  .             .  .           .          97 

The  Condor's  Sleep                 .  .                           .                 98 

My  Summer          .             .             .  .             .             .          99 

The  Eagle      .                          .  .                          .              100 

The  Cock              .             .             .  .             .             .101 

The  Orchard                .             .  .             .             .               102 

Love  106 


xii 


RAMBLINGS  —  Continued 

From  a  Winnower  of  Grain  to  the  Winds  .               107 

The  Homeric  Combat     .            ..             .  .              .        108 

Sunbright  Hercules    .              .             .             .  .               109 

Nature      ."'.".             .             .             .  .             .110 

The  Axe          .                          .             .             .  .               Ill 

In  Union  Square,  San  Francisco            .  .              .        112 

In  Springtime              .             .              .              .  .               113 

In  Time  of  November    .             ,              _  .              .114 

An  Arizona  Cactus    .....  115 

Under  a  Pine  at  the  Grand  Canyon        .  .              .116 

To  the  Grand  Canyon            .                           .  .               117 

In  the  Petrified  Forest,  Arizona             .  .              .118 

A  Lizard  of  the  Petrified  Forest               .  .               119 

The  Sawmill         .             .             ....  .120 

In  Jefferson  Square,  San  Francisco              .  .               121 

Man  and  Tree      .             .             .             .  .              .        122 

To  the  Grand  Canyon  of  the  Colorado       .  .               123 

With  Memory      .             .             .             ...  .        124 

A  Remembrance  of  Autumn  Woods            .  .               125 

My  Bohemia         .             .             .             .  .              .        126 

To  Beauty      ...  127 


Xlll 


RAMBLINGS  —  Continued 

To  the  Owl  that  alighted  above  the  Picture  of 
Athens  hung  in  one  of  the  Lecture  Halls  of 

Rutgers  College         .  •        128 

Ulysses  and  Circe      .  129 

Icarus        .             .  •        I30 

The  Deepest  Poem    .  1S1 

The  Brook            .  •        I32 

Rome                .  134 

The  Russian  Bear  •        135 

IN    A    STUDIO      .  137 

Sound  and  Color  •        139 

The  Shepherdess        .  14° 

Dawn         .....  •        141 

14-2 

Evensong                                  •  • 

On  Watching  the  Artist  Paint  a  Picture  of  Mount 

Shasta       .             .  143 

A  Vision                .  .144 

The  Return  from  the  Raid  145 

The  Mountain       .  .146 

Prayer              .              -  147 

Promise     .  .148 

The  Unfinished  Portrait        .  149 

William  Keith                   .             •  •             •             .150 


xiv 


ENVOY        .  151 

The  Poet  to  his  Pegasus  •        153 

Song  Its  Own  Reward      '    ,  154 

The  Passion  for  Perfection  .                                         .        155 

Pine  Not,  nor  Fret    .  156 


XV 


PREFATORY  NOTE.—  Of  the  pieces  in  this  vol 
ume  "  Into  the  Light "  was  published  in  its  first 
edition  of  1,500  copies  in  the  latter  part  of  1901, 
the  copies  of  that  edition  being  now  about  exhausted. 
Since  its  publication  it  has  been  revised  in  places 
and  nine  stanzas  have  been  added  to  it.  "A  Cactus," 
"  Under  a  Pine  at  the  Grand  Canyon,"  "  To  the 
Grand  Canyon,"  "  In  the  Petrified  Forest,"  and  "A 
Lizard  of  the  Petrified  Forest,"  were  published  in 
Out  West;  "To  the  Owl  that  alighted  above  the 
Picture  of  Athens,"  in  The  Independent  (N.  Y.) ; 
"Sound  and  Color"  and  "Man  and  Tree,"  in  the 
San  Francisco  Examiner,  and  "  The  Orchard,"  in 
the  San  Francisco  Chronicle.  A  few  of  the  pieces 
have  been  taken  from  "  Moods  and  Other  Verse," 
now  out  of  print.  All  the  remaining  pieces  are  here 
published  for  the  first  time. 


UNDER  THE  PINE 


INTO   THE   LIGHT 

Let  us  choose  to  us  judgment;    let  us  know  among  ourselves 
what  is  good.  —  Job  xxxiv-4. 

Day  unto  day  uttereth  speech,    and   night   unto  night  showeth 
knowledge.  —  Psalms  xix-2. 

What  dost  thou  see  when  without  thee  thou  lookest,  O  all- 
searching  Man? 

Life,  ever  life,  amid  changes  by  multiplex  rhythms  controlled  — 
Rhythms  that  throb  without  end  in  immensity's  vastness  of  space, 
Mingling  and  blending  in  chorus  which  sings  of  the  Order  Divine. 

What  dost  thou  see  when  within  thee  thou  lookest,  O  all- 
searching  Man? 

Thee  as  a  spirit  and  atom  of  all  the  mysterious  whole; 
Giving  as  well  as  receiving,  bound  to  the  infinite  past, 
Made  by  and  making  thy  future  that  stretches  eternally  on. 


I 

And  now,  dear  friend,  weary  and  sick  at  heart 
With  what  thou  hast  been  and  with  what  thou  art, 

Come,  let  us  sit  beneath  this  centuried  pine, 
Where  Nature's  self  may  heal  thee  of  thy  smart. 

II 

For  here  there  broods  such  feeling  of  repose, 
Such  soothing  quiet  all  around  us  flows, 

That  for  the  blessed  time  life  seems  to  hush 
Its  doubtful  triumphs  and  its  certain  woes. 

Ill 

Ah,  well-a-day,  what  heart  has  not  its  pains, 
Its  grievous  losses,  incommensurate  gains, 
And  as  result  of  all  the  strenuous  strife, 
What  little  profit  at  the  last  remains ! 

IV 

By  thoughts  like  these  we  are  at  times  oppressed; 
But  who  the  loss  or  profit  can  attest? 

Our  glass  we  see  through  darkly,  and  full  oft 
What  seemed  the  worst  was  in  the  end  the  best. 

[  5  ] 


V 

In  these  unclouded  heavens  no  stars  we  see, 
Yet  all  roll  there  in  sovran  majesty; 

So,  when  thy  sky  seems  reft  of  every  star, 
In  quenchless  light  they  still  may  live  for  thee.  .  .  , 

VI 

The  bubbles  dancing  on  convivial  wine, 
The  restful  dewdrops  on  the  procreant  vine, 
But  symbolize  each  being  life  has  known: 
All  vanish  at  a  breath  and  leave  no  sign. 

VII 

We  meet  insatiate  death  at  every  turn; 
Life's  brightest  candles  flicker  as  they  burn; 

While  lone  oblivion  pours  forevermore 
Her  flood  lethean  from  exhaustless  urn.  .  .  . 

VIII 

Thus  sayest  thou,  as  has  been  said  before 
In  various  iteration  o'er  and  o'er; 

But  canst  thou  mete  or  weigh  the  least  of  lives? 
And  if  earth's  work  be  done,  why  askest  more? 

[  6  ] 


IX 

Lament  not  o'er  the  failures  of  the  Past, 
Nor  fondly  hope  thy  Future  may  be  cast 

Where  victory  waits  thee  with  unfading  bay ;  — 
The  Present  only  is  thy  first  and  last. 

X 

Nor  seek  to  blot  the  record  of  thy  years 
With  self-condemning,  uneffectual  tears; 

But  let  thy  page  be  such  that  day  by  day 
Still  less  and  less  the  evil  there  appears. 

XI 

Beat  all  thy  moments  into  links  of  gold, 
Whose  uncorroding  chain  may  serve  to  hold 

Thy  anxious  spirit  fast  to  Faith's  firm  rock, 
As  Doubt's  engulfing  waves  are  round  thee  rolled. 

XII 

It  cannot  matter,  for  we  are  so  small 
A  part  of  the  immeasurable  All, 

Thy  evil  demon  whispers  in  thine  ear 
When  pleasures  lure  thee  as  when  shadows  fall. 

[  7  ] 


XIII 

But  know  that  every  eon  which  has  gone  •  » 

Before  thee  since  life's  earliest  breath  was  drawn 

Has  helped  compound  thee  into  what  thou  art — 
A  deathless  spirit  moving  on  and  on; 

XIV 

And  that  the  tiniest  creature's  slenderest  strain 
In  loneliest  wilderness  is  not  in  vain, 

But  makes  inseparable  part  of  all 
That  fills  Divinity's  unending  reign. 

XV 

All  things  and  elements  are  kin  to  thee, 
As  are  the  cones  of  this  imperial  tree 

To  every  member  of  the  host  of  stars  — 
Ay,  even  to  those  no  telescope  may  see. 

XVI 

Couldst  thou  but  only  feel,  without  surcease, 
Though  woes  and  dangers  round  thee  still  increase, 

Thyself  as  part  of  the  eternal  scheme, 
Thy  soul  might  anchor  in  the  port  of  Peace  — 

[  8  1 


XVII 

The  eternal  scheme  whose  order  as  divine 
Thou  mayst  not  question,  with  its  blazing  sign 
Above  and  round  thee,  and  its  rhythmic  note 
Forever  ringing  in  that  heart  of  thine. 

S'    • 
XVIII 

How  full,  how  rich  is  life!     Dear  God,  did  we 
But  ope  our  eyes  and  dare  with  faith  to  see 
Thy  splendors  hearted  with  untainted  joys, 
Each  pulse  would  thrill  with  sudden  ecstasy. 

XIX 

O  garniture  of  glory  round  us  spread, 
By  Beauty's  crystal  streams  forever  fed, 
Divine  expression  of  the  mind  divine, 
Unchanging,  changing,  fleeing  yet  not  fled! 

XX 

O  Music,  throned  within  the  heart  of  things, 
What  tribute  to  thee  every  being  brings! 

What  waves  of  thine  through  space's  vastness   roll! 
What  notes  of  thine  great  Nature  ever  sings ! 


[  9  ] 


XXI 

Mysterious  all;  yet  that  proud  sun  which  prints 
Upon  yon  mountain-peak  such  splendrous  tints, 

Holds  not  one  secret  greater  than  the  grass 
Which  at  our  feet  its  wonders  humbly  hints. 

XXII 

The  Sphinx  outlives  the  myriad  ones  who  ask 
The  cause  and  reason  of  their  burdening  task, 

And  with  her  silent  lip  and  stony  gaze 
Still  ever  wears  impenetrable  mask. 

XXIII 

And  though  the  crown  of  life  sat  on  her  brow, 
While  hottest  blood  her  bosom  did  avow, 

With  her  great  head  encasing  brain  as  great, 
She  would  be  answerless  e'en  then  as  now.  .  .  . 

XXIV 

How  very  little  is  the  most  that's  known; 
By  what  sore  travail  man  has  slowly  grown; 

What  luring  heavens  have  led  him  to  despair; 
What  dreadful  hells  have  made  his  soul  their  own ! 

[    10    ] 


XXV 

What  is  he  more  than  atomy  that  wings 
Its  predetermined  flight  mid  other  things 

That  breathe  a  moment,  then  unheeded  pass 
To  where  no  note  of  being  ever  sings?  .  .  . 

XXVI 

Wail  as  thou  wilt,  but  can  thy  loudest  cry 
Be  more  than  vain,  inconsequential  sigh? 
And  art  thou  blinded  so  by  Evil's  bane 
As  not  to  see  the  Good  which  blazes  nigh? 

XXVII 

Restore  thy  vision,  and  as  now  the  prayer 
Of  parting  day  stirs  all  the  silent  air, 

With  thine  own  soul  the  covenant  renew, 
Thy  cross  through  Duty's  thorniest  to  bear. 

XXVIII 

For  'tis  no  mystery  that  some  task  is  thine, 
For  thee  to  make  it,  if  thou  wilt,  divine, 

And  that  while  work  remains  for  thee  to  do, 
Do  it  thou  must,  nor  weaken  nor  repine. 


XXIX 

Whether  it  be  what  men  deem  high  or  low 
"Pis  not  for  thee  to  question  or  to  know, 

But  that  thou  knead  thy  heart's  best  blood  in  it 
Is  thy  concern,  nor  cease  to  make  it  so; 

XXX 

For  shouldst  thou  slight  it  in  the  least,  or  pause 
To  quaff  the  nectar  of  the  world's  applause, 

Or  nurse,  self-satisfied,  a  base  content, 
Thou  art  a  traitor  to  thy  dearest  cause. 

XXXI 

And  dost  thou  dream  of  an  immortal  life 
Where  work  is  not  and  happiness  is  rife; 

Where  Passion  dies  upon  the  bed  of  ease, 
And  Pain  wields  nevermore  its  dreadful  knife? 

XXXII 

'Tis  thus  to  deem  the  structure  of  thy  soul 
Can  be  completed  as  around  it  roll 

This  life's  few,  fleeting  years;  'tis  thus  to  make 
A  senseless,  fairy  bliss  thy  farthest  goal. 

[    12    ] 


XXXIII 

If  endless  life  be  thine  how  canst  thou  be, 
When  disembodied  from  thy  flesh,  set  free 

From  all  thy  past  —  thy  spirit  newly  made  ? 
Death  cannot  work  such  miracle  in  thee. 

XXXIV 

What  age  on  age,  what  power  on  power, 
Conspired  ere  this  wee,  unpretending  flower 

Could  hold  its  sweet  communion  with  us  here, 
To  heap  the  measure  of  this  golden  hour! 

XXXV 

No  single  stroke  can  alter  or  create: 
Continuous  flows  the  river  of  thy  fate, 

As  it  will  flow  with  all  its  good  and  ill 
Through  Death's  dark-mantled,  unimpeding  gate. 

XXXVI 

Thou  art  a  spirit  now  no  less  than  when 
Thy  form  has  vanished  from  the  sight  of  men; 

Thy  home  the  Universe,  where  none  may  dare 
To  bound  the  farthest  limits  of  <  thy  ken. 

[    13   ] 


XXXVII 

But  if  by  wasting  of  thy  natural  might 
Thy  soul  has  added  nothing  to  its  height, 

How  durst  thou  hope  for  perfectness  or  ease, 
Or  with  celestial  raiment  to  be  dight? 

XXXVIII 

And  didst  thou  know  none  other  life  could  be 
Than  this  which  holds  such  treasured  wealth  for  thee, 

Thy  Duty's  star  would  burn  as  bright  as  though 
It  lit  thy  path  to  immortality. 

XXXIX 

Words  cannot  save  thee  though  they  be  of  gold 
Beyond  all  value  earth  has  ever  told, 

And  though  with  collocation's  art  they  seem 
From  out  divinest  sources  to  have  rolled. 

XL 

The  generations  ever  come  and  go 
On  vasty  seas  of  blended  joy  and  woe, 

But  what  the  deep-hid  meaning  of  it  all 
It  matters  not  for  curious  thee  to  know. 


1  14 


XLI 

It  only  matters  if  thy  conscience  sleep, 
Or  thou  the  golden  hours  in  bondage  keep, 

Or  if  some  deed,  or  word,  or  look  of  thine, 
Should  cause  the  angels  of  the  soul  to  weep. 

XLII 

Enjoy  the  day,  as  Horace  says,  is  well; 
To  lounge  and  drink  with  Omar,  as  we  tell 

Our  loves  to  every  moment  of  the  day, 
Is  with  enchantment  for  the  time  to  dwell; 

XLIII 

But  these  are  condiments  and  not  the  bread 
Wherewith  life's  feast  is  nourishingly  spread, 

And  deem  thou  not  with  diet  such  as  theirs 
A  starving  soul  in  bounty  can  be  fed. 

XLIV 

Know  thou  the  Gods  are  good  to  him  who  bears 
Unvanquished  stoutly  on;    who  in  despair's 

Entangling  web  weaves  many  a  thread  of  hope; 

While  all  the  stars  light  him  that  boldly  dares. 

/ 

[   15  ] 


XLV 

What  matters  if  the  temple's  ruin  lies 

With  none  for  mourner  save  the  grass  which  sighs 

Where  once  the  goddess  undisputed  reigned 
Amid  the  joyance  of  her  people's  cries? 

XLVI 

Why  shouldst  thou  waste  unnecessary  tears 
Because  along  the  roadside  of  the  years 

Are  strewn  the  wrecks  of  many  a  star-crowned  fame 
That  once  enravished  unremembered  ears? 

XLVII 

And  e'en  the  Parthenon  —  that  matchless  thing 
Which  still  in  beauty's  sky  on  broken  wing 

Soars  as  the  chosen  one  death  would  not  slay  — 
Why  should  the  thought  of  her  our  bosom  sting? 

XLVIII 

It  is  enough  to  feel  that  thou  and  I 
Are  on  this  earth,  to  work,  and  serve,  and  die, 
As  have  the  millions  who  have  gone  before, 
And  as  will  other  millions  by  and  by. 

[   16  ] 


XLIX 

And  when  thy  voice  is  mute,  thy  strivings  o'er, 
By  no  deft  magic  can  report  add  more; 

Nor  can  subtraction  be  should  Fame  refuse 
To  jewel  thee  with  baubles  from  her  store. 

L 

Fame's  nought,  while  every  deed  that  man  has  done 
Vibrating  from  its  source  has  onward  run, 

To  mingle  with  its  kind  and  ever  beat 
For  good  or  ill  beneath  the  quickening  sun. 

LI 

And  as  for  thee  in  time  long  past  was  stored 
The  force  which  in  thy  grate  full  oft  has  roared, 

So  for  thy  soul  has  grown  from  age  to  age 
The  spirit's  energy  in  heaping  hoard. 

LII 

Things,  forces,  change  and  change,  but  never  die; 
Infinitude  is  writ  on  earth  and  sky; 

And  if  it  be  no  atom  lives  in  vain, 
How  can  thy  spirit  ever  clod-like  lie? 

/ 

[   17  ] 


LIII 

This  lily-bloom,  we  would  not  wish  to  stir 
From  where  it  gazes  on  the  towering  fir, 

Is  rooted  in  the  mountain's  mighty  past, 
And  churches  are  because  the  temples  were. 

LIV 

Let  not  Necessity's  most  cunning  wit 
Lead  thee  into  Materialism's  pit; 

No  wind-blown  waif  art  thou,  and  in  thy  soul 
Conscience  and  all  her  court  unsleeping  sit. 

LV 

And  shouldst  thou  Right's  most  petty  creature  slay, 
Not  all  the  worlds  nor  powers  could  put  away 

The  sure,  commensurate  penalty  from  thee; 
It  may  be  soon  or  late,  but  thou  must  pay. 

LVI 

Thou  art  thine  own  redeemer,  thou  alone; 
Not  even  the  greatest  can  for  thee  atone; 

Nor  can  one  bloom  unfold  within  thy  soul 
Except  from  seed  thy  careful  hand  has  sown. 

[   18  ] 


LVII 

Wert  thou  not  forced  to  pay  thy  sin's  full  cost, 
On  Chaos'  waves  the  universe  were  tossed, 
The  Good  and  Evil  be  no  more  opposed, 
And  black  oblivion  settle  o'er  the  lost. 

LVIII 

Man  is  not  nourished  on  ambrosial  food; 
'Tis  his  to  work,  and  serve,  and  not  to  brood; 

And  if  the  knife  of  suffering  cut  his  heart, 
The  wound,  it  must  be,  carries  with  it  good. 

LIX 

Though  all  the  blossoms  of  thy  heart  be  gone, 
Though  from  thy  bosom's  bitter  wells  be  drawn 

But  tears  that  hold  thy  consecrated  dead, 
With  freshened  courage  thou  must  still  go  on. 

LX 

The  Evil  rages  and  we  know  not  why; 
But  overhead  we  may  behold  a  sky 

'Neath  which  the  hosts  of  an  eternal  Good, 
With  pinions  dropping  balm,  forever  fly. 

[   19  ] 


LXI 

And  shouldst  thou  falter  not  thy  keel  may  sweep 
Serenity's  unbounded,  stormless  deep, 

Where  mid  its  myriad  Islands  of  the  Blest 
Thou  mayst  communion  with  the  noblest  keep. 

LXII 

Duty  will  seem  no  ruthless  tyrant  there, 
With  Faith  and  Love,  triumphant  o'er  despair, 

To  guide  all  heartening  breezes  to  thy  sail, 
As  Hope's  enthralling  music  fills  the  air.  .  .  . 

LXIII 

But  lo!    the  day  is  done;    entrancing  night 
With  tremulous  hush  begins  her  noiseless  flight, 

While  we  in  wonderment  still  ever  new 
Seem  dowered  afresh  by  her  transfiguring  light. 

LXIV 

And  as  we  silent  down  the  mountain  go, 
What  spirit-streams  around  our  footsteps  flow! 

What  soothing  ecstasies  of  peace  proclaim 
That  God  is  with  us  'tis  enough  to  know! 

[    20    ] 


NOT   DEAD 

The  poets  all  are  dead,  the  critic  cries, 

Save  those  that  do  but  feed  upon  the  great, 

Who  through  the  years  have  kept  empurpled  state 

Beneath  the  radiance  of  adoring  eyes; 

That  now  the  Muse  her  benison  denies ; 

That  thought  no  more  with  winged  word  can  mate, 
And  breathing  music's  deep  delight  create 
The  songs  that  Art  eternally  will  prize. 

Not  so:    the  poet  now,  as  ever,  sings, 

And  still  shall  sing,  for  all  who  care  to  hear, 
Ecstatic  strains  his  very  blood  has  wrought. 

Each  Present  hath  its  jewel-hearted  things 
Whereby  it  lives;    but  oft  the  Gods  are  near, 
When  our  beclouded  sight  beholds  them  not. 


[    21     ] 


IMPROMPTU 

IN    RESPONSE   TO    THE    QUESTION: 
WHAT    IS    POETRY? 

(AFTER  ALFRED  DE  MUSSET) 

To  drive  the  chase  in  every  hallowed  spot 

By  Memory  haunted,  and  the  captured  thought, 

All  tremulous,  uncertain,  firm  to  hold 

Balanced  on  axis  glorious  of  gold; 

To  stamp  eternity  upon  the  dream 

Which  but  an  instant  lights  him  with  its  gleam; 

Deeply  to  love  the  beautiful  and  true, 

And  their  harmonious  virtues  to  pursue; 

In  his  own  heart  to  look  and  list  unto 

The  echo  of  his  genius;    all  alone 

To  sing,  to  laugh,  and  make  his  tearful  moan, 

Thereto  unprompted  by  design  or  guile; 

Out  of  a  sigh,  a  word,  a  look,  and  even  a  smile, 

A  work  of  art  consummately  to  rear 

Full  of  sweet  charmingness  and  moving  fear; 

A  radiant  pearl  to  fashion  from  a  tear: 

Such  is  the  passion  of  the  poet's  strife, 

His  boon,  his  great  ambition,  and  his  life. 

[    22    1 


MEDITATION 

Be  up  and  doing !  —  In  this  time  of  steam 
Let  not  one  moment  pass  unlaboring  by; 
On  these  electric,  wide-spread  pinions  fly 
To  where  alone  the  stars  of  action  beam. 

Dear  poet,  leave  thy  phantom  land  of  dream, 
Where  lazy  clouds  all  idly  pace  the  sky,* 
While  Fancy's  fairies  in  the  coverts  lie, 
To  watch  with  thee  some  naiad-haunted  stream. 

Thou  many-tongued,  immitigable  Voice, 
With  mine  own  soul  I  would  in  quiet  be, 
Till  Silence  medicine  my  wounded  ear; 

Then  with  the  heart  of  things  shall  I  rejoice, 
The  true  realities  divinely  see, 
And  deathless  harmonies  enraptured  hear. 


*  "When  he  bestrides  the  lazy-pacing  clouds, 
And  sails  upon  the  bosom  of  the  air." 

Romeo  and  Juliet,  Act  II,  Scene  II. 


THE    GENERATIONS 

Deep-hearted  Ocean,  thou  dost  mock  the  years 
As  one  that  glories  in  immortal  youth, 
Untorn  by  time's  inexorable  tooth, 
Unmoved  by  war's  or  ruin's  blood  and  tears. 

The  snow-clad  peaks,  the  towering  domes  man  rears, 
Feel  at  their  core  decay's  relentless  ruth, 
While  thou, —  great  symbol  of  faith-crowned  truth, — 
Securely  bidest,  free  of  doubts  and  fears. 

And  so,  the  Sea  of  Life  rolls  endless  on, 
From  out  the  fecund  womb  of  eldest  yore, 
Sparkling  with  joys,  or  gloomed  with  pains  and  woes. 

The  generations  one  by  one  have  gone, 

While  still  that  Sea,  which  all  their  bubbles  bore, 
Unhasting,  yet  unpausing,  ebbs  and  flows. 


GHOSTS 

The  ghosts  that  come  from  out  the  years, 
Dream-winged  and  purged  of  passion's  fears, 
Troop  round  me  now  as  oft  before, 
To  fondly  lead  my  footsteps  o'er 
The  paths  my  heart  of  heart  endears. 

What  hope-wreathed  joy  on  joy  appears, 
What  bloomy  cheeks  no  anguish  sears, 
What  vasty  skies  wherein  to  soar, 
O  time  of  old! 

Their  voices  die  upon  mine  ears, 
I  cry  to  them,  but  no  one  hears, 
While  other  ghosts  around  me  pour  — 
The  ghosts  of  Now  that  madly  roar, 
And  mock  my  unrelieving  tears, 
O  time  of  old! 


NIGHT    AND    DAY 

The  waves  of  Night  dashed  over  me 
With  such  tempestuous  roar  and  roll, 
It  dazed  all  sense  that  such  a  sea 
Could  threat  to  whelm  the  struggling  soul. 

But  when  the  Day,  led  in  by  dawn, 
With  hope  and  promise  radiant  shone, 
I  found  the  murderous  billows  gone, 
And  all  the  air  with  rainbows  sown. 


HOPE 

You  tantalizing  demon,  Fear, 

Back  to  your  native  night, 

Nor  bar  sweet  Hope  that  hovers  near 

On  wide-spread  wings  of  light. 


[    26    ] 


THE    SOUL 

Who  is  it  dares  disturb  my  rest 

In  this  luxuriant  poppy  field, 

Where  languorous  airs  within  my  breast 

All  rare  delights  of  music  yield? 

I  am  thy  Soul !  —  Up  from  thy  bed, 
And  sweep  the  film  from  out  thine  eye, 
So  that  by  consecration  led, 
I  may  be  saved  that's  like  to  die. 


FOUR    IN    ONE 

Science,  and  Art,  and  Ethics  —  these  great  three 
Support  the  mystic  structure  of  the  soul, 
While  sweet  Religion  everlastingly, 
Deep  as  creation,  underlies  the  whole. 


1 27  ] 


DEATH 

The  chattering  guests,  in  sumptuous,  proud  array, 
Filled  to  the  throat  the  heavy,  glittering  rooms; 
Ennui  once  more  hard  labored  to  be  gay, 
While  flowers  hid  deep  all  soul-tormenting  glooms. 

But  when  stern  midnight  tolled,  and  every  air 
Reeked  like  some  noisome,  pestilential  breath, 
They  sudden  saw,  with  horror's  mad  despair, 
Gone  was  their  guest,  and  in  his  place  sat  Death. 


NOT    FOR    DEATH 

Death,  take  my  body;    it  has  served  me  well, 
And  I  begrudge  thee  not  thy  wished-for  dole; 
But  to  thy  very  face  this  dare  I  tell: 
Thou  shalt  not  have  the  treasure  of  my  soul. 


VACANCY 

Unchanging  vacancy  now  fills  alone 
This  chambered  house:    no  sorrowing  voice,  or  gay, 
Nor  woman's  ministries,  make  full  the  day 
That  love  once  clasped  in  her  bejewelled  zone; 

Life,  with  its  myriad  miracles,  has  flown, 
While  all  the  garden,  where  the  breeze  dared  play 
With  many  a  sun-kissed  rose,  lies  nude  and  gray, 
Save  where  with  tangled  brier  overgrown.  .  .  . 

O  Soul,  art  thou  the  house  thus  emptied  quite 
Of  all  the  glories  which  erstwhile  did  thrill 
Each  nook  and  cranny  of  thy  golden  rooms? 

Is  now  thy  garden  fallen  into  blight, 

And  do  the  strenuous  winds  no  longer  will 
To  scatter  skyward  thy  despairing  glooms? 


[  29 1 


QUESTION 

I  sit  and  muse  in  these  autumnal  days, 
Companioned  by  the  wistful,  falling  leaves, 
As  now  the  far-gone  year  in  passing  grieves, 
And  on  our  hearts  his  thin  hand  sadly  lays. 

But  through  the  sombrous  web  November  weaves 
We  see  the  Spring  her  verdurous  banners  raise 
Mid  bursting  bloom  and  songsters'  joysome  praise, 
While  every  clod  with  expectation  heaves. 

The  leaves  are  fluttering  from  my  life's  old  tree, 
Fast  withering  now,  yet  once  all  freshly  fair, 
And  soon  dread  Winter  will  have  stripped  it  bare; 

And  then,  without  deserving,  will  it  see 

Another  Spring,  and  wondering  breathe  an  air 
That  tells  of  glories  that  are  yet  to  be? 


O    MOMENT    STAY! 

O  moment,  stay,  so  beautiful  thou  art! 

Exclaimed  the  Faust  immortal  Goethe  drew, 

As  consummation  lit  his  raptured  view, 

And  peace,  long-tossed,  slept  sweetly  in  his  heart. 

Alas!    it  came  but  only  to  depart; 

For  death  seized  Faust,  the  while  Mephisto's  crew 
Sprang  at  his  soul,  once  false,  but  now  so  true, 
It  warded  off  hell's  most  envenomed  dart. 

The  moments  stay  not,  nor  have  ever  stayed: 

They  pass,  and  we  pass  with  them,  closely  bound 
By  mystery's  chain  in  endless,  rhythmic  round; 

But  nought  is  lost,  nor  penalty  unpaid, 

While  work  and  service  shall  be  nobly  crowned 
Though  he  that  wrought  them  in  the  dust  be  laid. 


LIGHT    IN    DARKNESS 

(A  REMEMBRANCE) 

As  slow  we  strolled  along  the  rocky  shore, 
The  ocean's  surges  ever  restless  beat, 
And  broke  in  flowers  of  foam  around  our  feet 
Mid  wind's  and  breaker's  diapasoned  roar. 

The  hovering  fog  its  misty  wings  spread  o'er 
The  land  and  sea,  till  from  its  rock-bound  seat 
The  horn's  hoarse  signal  labored  to  entreat 
The  venturing  ships  now  anxious  to  the  core.  .  .  . 

Then  lo!    the  sun  victorious  cleaved  the  dark, 
And  fell  full  radiant  on  the  signal  tower, 
Until  it  gleamed  as  with  transfiguring  glow. 

Thou  timorous,  doubting  soul,  why  shouldst  thou  mark 
With  fear  the  blackest  cloud,  or  dare  to  cower 
Though  hard  beset  by  all  the  hosts  of  woe. 


THE    NEW    YEAR 
1906 

Time  opens  once  again  his  mystic  doors, 
And  we,  as  ever,  at  the  portal  stand, 
By  every  breeze  of  expectation  fanned, 
While  Hope,  lark-like,  sings  joyous  as  it  soars. 

Yet  havoc's  demon  madly  ramps  and  roars, 
Mid  blood  and  ruin,  through  the  Russian  land, 
Till  heartened  Liberty,  for  centuries  banned, 
In  every  ear  her  tale  of  pity  pours. 

And  War  seems  puddling  in  his  crimson  mire, 
To  find  occasion  for  his  base  desire, 
Where  jealous  nations  may  new  horrors  rear; 

But  Hope,  undaunted,  wings  still  high  and  higher, 
Until  beyond  the  clouds  its  note  rings  clear, 
With  Faith's,  above  the  whine  of  Doubt  and  Fear. 


[  33  ] 


MEMORY'S    BELLS 

The  Past's  memorial  troop  insistent  ring 

Within  my  heart  their  deeply-sounding  bells, 
Whose  mournful  tone  in  every  throbbing  tells 
Of  joys  that  evermore  have  taken  wing. 

Yet  'tis  not  sadness  which  alone  they  bring; 
For  as  I  list,  once  more  my  bosom  swells 
With  boyhood's  bounding  sport  in  woods  and  dells, 
Where  rapture's  voices  unrestrained  sing. 

Ah,  where  are  they  who  rilled  the  long-drawn  hours 
Of  every  season's  wonderments  with  me 
As  though  life  had  but  happiness  for  sign?  .... 

The  bells  have  ceased;    the  sky  of  evening  lowers; 
The  fruitful  Summer  can  no  longer  be, 
And  barren  Winter  now  alone  is  mine. 


[  34  ] 


DREAM    MUSIC 

O  spirit  mine,  arouse  thee  from  a  sleep 

Which  only  sloth  or  weakness  can  prolong, 
And  on  the  dazzling  mountain-peaks  of  song 
Let  Beauty's  legions  in  thy  heart's  blood  leap; 

Then  list  thou  to  the  harmonies  that  sweep 
The  infinite  paths  of  infinite  life  along, 
Content  to  shrine  but  one  of  that  vast  throng 
In  music  all  the  years  will  love  to  keep.  .  .  . 

This  luring  ecstasy,  how  vain!    how  vain! 

But  though  my  reason's  every  tongue  upbraid, 
I  yet  am  bound  a  prisoner  to  its  will; 

For  yesternight  mine  ear  caught  such  a  strain, 
By  dream's  own  fingers  on  my  spirit  played, 
That  its  melodious  raptures  shake  me  still. 


[  35  ] 


A    DAY    WITH    MUSIC 

The  morning  wooed  us  to  the  ocean-shore, 

Where  stretched  at  ease  in  tranquil  joy  we  lay, 
Watching  the  breakers'  near,  incessant  play, 
And  stirred  by  music  of  their  thunderous  roar; 

Then  deep  Beethoven's  grand,  symphonic  lore 
Enchained  the  sequent  hours  of  the  day, 
While  evening  saw  great  Verdi's  lighter  sway 
Rule  our  obedient  hearts  as  ne'er  before. 

O  miracle,  in  such  brief  span  to  be 

Far  borne  on  Music's  multitudinous  waves, 
That  roll  triumphant  over  death's  vast  graves !  - 

Life-breathing  waves,  inimitably  free, 
Divine,  eternal;    while  upon  their  breast 
The  universe  itself  is  rocked  to  rest. 


THE    DIVINE    ORDER 

Dost  thou  let  vastness  overwhelm  thy  thought 
When  led  along  imagination's  way, 
Nor  dare  to  dream  that  some  propitious  day 
Will  bring  thee  gems  with  newer  radiance  fraught? 

Yon  star's  no  farther  with  its  beckoning  ray, 
Whose  distance  science  never  yet  has  wrought, 
Than  that  alluring  rose  thy  heart  besought, 
Within  thy  lady's  loving  hand  to  lay. 

The  faintest  music  of  intoning  spheres 

May  beat  harmonious  on  thy  raptured  ears, 
While  glories  infinite  thine  eyes  may  see. 

Soar  where  thou  wilt  on  world-compelling  wings, 
Still  canst  thou  list  the  voice  divine  of  things 
Proclaim  thou  art  in  them  and  they  in  thee. 


[   37  1 


THE    DIVINE    HARMONY 

A  single  soul  —  what  microscopic  mite 

When  measured  'gainst  the  universe  of  things  — 
A  voice  that  for  a  moment  sobs  and  sings, 
And  then  seems  lost  in  silence  of  the  night. 

But  yet  how  great  the  meanest,  merest  sprite 
When  measured  m_  the  universe  of  things ; 
For  there  'tis  one  with  earth's  supremest  kings, 
And  bathes  in  unextinguishable  light. 

It  must  be  that  the  note  of  every  soul 
Is  needed  in  the  harmonies  that  roll 
And  throb  eternally  with  power  divine; 

And  we  have  drank,  when  stars  were  fair  to  see, 
The  summit's  deep,  revealing  ecstasy, 
As  shone  refulgent  the  assuring  sign. 


TO    A    MARBLE    STATUETTE    OF    BEATRICE 

When  youthful  Dante's  roving,  marvellous  eyes 
Upon  the  universe  began  to  ope 
As  if  with  presage  of  their  future  scope, 
They  saw  thy  great  original  arise; 

And  then  he  thrilled  as  one  divinely  wise, 
For  well  he  knew  the  star  of  faith  and  hope, 
That  should  lead  on  his  travailing  soul  to  cope 
With  all  the  hells  beneath  storm-clouded  skies. 

And  now  in  marble  spotless  as  her  name 
Thou  dost  compel  such  tribute  to  her  fame 
As  if  her  own  deep  gaze  upon  us  beamed; 

For  thine  the  art  wherein  we  newly  see 

Some  hint  of  that  which  Dante  greatly  dreamed 
Of  woman's  loveliness  and  purity. 


t  39  ] 


BEAUTY 

(AFTER  FERNAND  GREGH) 

This  eve  dream  brims  my  heart,  my  tears  unbidden  rise, 

Eachwhere  I  feel  another  infinite  soul  to  be, 

My  silence  fills  the  air  with  tremulous  harmony, 

And  flowers  irradiant  bloom  at  will  of  my  closed  eyes. 

My  youth-compelling  blood  stirs  with  its  ardent  cries 
The  old,  far  world  whose  kindred  spirit  speaks  to  me, 
And  in  the  kindly  dark  immingling  forms  I  see 
In  motion's  endless  play  and  color's  myriad  dyes. 

O  moment  thou  of  Beauty!    Could  I  nothing  know 
Save  this  thy  swift-winged  rapture  in  my  clouded  way, 
'Twere  well  to  have  been  born,  to  death  content  I'd  go. 

This  eve  my  pride  fed  full  on  what  man  dreams  for 

aye; 

And,  like  a  bird  one  catches  at  the  casement,  so 
The  infinite  in  my  hand  all  palpitating  lay. 


[  40 


LIFE'S    BLEND 

Fret  not,  O  vainly  striving  soul, 
For  that  thou  mayst  not  reach  thy  goal, 
Or  that  the  mists  of  evil  bar 
From  thee  the  light  of  many  a  star; 
For  as  we  watch  life's  myriad  streams, 
And  sound  the  deepness  of  our  dreams, 
This  truth  of  truths  we  learn  to  feel, 
Beyond  all  reasoning  to  conceal, 
That  the  divinely  ordering  Will 
Gives  neither  Good  alone,  nor  111, 
The  sceptre  of  unmixed  control, 
But  that  in  blended  wave  they  roll 
Throughout  creation's  star-set  whole. 


41 1 


THE    POEM 

All  Beauty's  magic-weaving  airs 
Blow  through  the  Poet's  answering  soul, 
Till  thrilled  with  ecstasy  he  dares 
The  building  of  some  flawless  whole. 


LIFE'S    JEWELS 

Seek  not  life's  jewels  where  the  poppies  »grow, 
Nor  where  Desire,  all  passion-poisoned,  rears 
Her  luring  domes,  but  in  the  heart  of  woe, 
With  shores  far  washed  by  sanctifying  tears. 


RICHES 

All  that  life's  ocean  infinitely  bears 
Of  joys  beyond  all  measure  may  be  thine, 
For  everything  is  his  who  nobly  dares, 
And  he  that  truly  serves  is  then  divine. 


[  42 1 


AMBITION 

"  Long  have  I  sued,  and  still  have  sued  in  vain ;  — 
My  one  and  only  love,  why  dost  thou  wreak 
Thy  scorn  upon  me?     Wilt  thou  never  speak 
The  word  to  ease  my  heart's  compelling  pain?" 

"  If  thou'lt  be  brave,"  said  she,  "  thy  sorrow's  rain 
Shall  breed  a  harvest;    look!    seest  thou  yon  peak 
That  lifts  at  dizzy  height  its  snowy  beak? 
Bear  me  to  that,  and  thou  my  heart  mayst  drain." 

Upon  his  back  he  took  the  tempting  maid, 
And  upward  went;    up  and  still  up  he  strode, 
The  distant,  glittering  peak  his  constant  guide; 

Still  up,  o'er  Alp  on  Alp,  he  strained,  nor  stayed 
Till  to  the  pinnacle  he  bore  his  load  — 
Then  like  an  idiot  laughed  .  .  .  and  gasping  .  .  . 
died. 


[  43  1 


MURMURINGS    IN    THE    DARKNESS 

(AFTER  FERNAND  GREGH) 

This  eve  a  wind  divine  is  stirring  in  the  trees; 

Its  long-drawn  sighing  fills  the  lonely,  sombrous  Park; 

Nought  but  the  wind  one  hears,  nought  but  the  gloom 

one  sees, 
While  shadow-murmurings  seem  at  times  to  bid  us  hark. 

'Tis  like  a  rambling  stream  in  eddy  vaguely  tossed 
'Neath  the  wan  sky  where    gleams  a  lone  star's  emerald 

light; 

It  draws  anear,  then  fades,  till  in  the  distance  lost, 
And  at  the  window  feigns  to  pass  before  our  sight. 

It  bathes  each  thing  like  water  fragrant,  crisp  and  sweet. 
Like  airy,  magic  waves  that  lightly  flow  at  will, 
So  that  in  all  the  world  no  leaf  or  moss  could  meet 
Its  tender  touch  and  not  voluptuously  thrill. 

'Tis  languor's  all  and  ardor's,  all  that  joy  can  own, 
With  all  that  dreams,  glides,  faints,  or  noiseful  passes  by; 
'Tis  like  the  silk's  delicious,  softly-rustling  tone, 
Or  like  the  nighttime's  tremor  dumb  with  ecstasy. 

[  44  1 


In  truth,  amid  the  dismal  depths  profound  we  mark 
Its  warm,  mysterious  wine  elate  the  heart  and  brain, 
Something  of  heaven  itself,  at  times  we  dare  to  feign, 
Something  that's    vast,  august ;  —  yet  vain  and  ever  vain. 

It  is  as  though  a  sigh  of  God  filled  all  the  dark. 


THE    MYSTIC 

In  symboled  beauty  all  appears 
To  him  in  nature  as  in  art, 
The  while  in  ecstasy  he  hears 
Bright  angels  singing  in  his  heart  .  . 
Oh,  would  we  had  some  sight  of  his 
To  see  life's  glory  as  it  is! 


LOVE    NOT    DEAD 

Thou  fearest  thou  dost  not  love  me  as  of  yore; 
That  time  has  plundered  all  affection's  store; 
But  should  death  take  me  from  the  sight  of  men, 
Canst  thou  believe  thou  wouldst  not  miss  me  then? 

[  45  ] 


OPTIMISM 

The  golden  lances  of  the  sun  have  slain 
The  cruel  fog  that  veiled  the  river's  breast, 
And  every  crystal  wave,  now  unoppressed, 
Leaps  in  the  light  with  re-exulting  strain. 

The  birds,  that  long  beyond  their  hour  had  lain 
Hidden  and  still,  troop  forth  with  gladsome  zest, 
And  in  trumphant  song  their  joy  attest, 
To  see  the  conquering  sun  resume  his  reign. 

Ye  varied  aspects  of  the  woodland  scene, 
How  ye  enravish  us;  how  bid  us  hold 
True  to  the  course  throughout  creation  rolled: 

No  desert  spreads  its  waste  undowered  of  green, 
While  mid  time's  sombre,  perdurable  tombs 
God's  sifted,  quenchless  light  forever  looms. 


IN    ALL    THE    DAYS 

The  generations  come  and  go 
In  immemorial,  ghostly  show; 
They  pass,  and  pass,  and  are  no  more 
Than  are  the  leaves  of  eldest  yore 
That  wintry  winds  blew  to  and  fro. 

What  toils  and  moils  were  theirs  to  know, 
What  withered  blooms  were  theirs  to  grow, 
What  dust  made  up  their  treasured  store 
In  all  the  days! 

And  yet  the  streams  of  life  still  flow, 
No  evil  stalks  but  meets  its  foe, 
The  Muse  still  guards  her  golden  lore, 
While  deathless  Love  still  hovers  o'er 
The  anguished  bed  of  many  a  woe, 
In  all  the  days! 


[  47  ] 


THE    STRANGENESS    OF    IT 

In  tattered  garb,  unshaven  and  unshorn, 
Aimless  along  the  city's  crowded  street 
He  shuffles,  knowing  none  that  he  may  greet 
Save  some  poor  creature  like  himself  forlorn. 

Yet  three-score  years  ago  when  he  was  born, 
What  peaceful  raptures  more  than  honey-sweet 
In  every  heart-throb  of  his  mother  beat! 
How  proud  his  father  on  that  hopeful  morn! 

And  as  he  begs  of  me  a  paltry  dime, 

With  tremulous  voice  and  most  appealing  face, 
To  buy  necessity  for  nightly  rest, 

'Tis  strange  to  think  there  could  have  been  a  time, 
When  sheltered  in  a  mother's  fond  embrace 
He  slept  an  infant  on  her  heaving  breast. 


1 48 


REMEMBRANCE 

They  tell  me,  gentle  lady,  thou  art  dead, 

And  that  the  sons  thine  eye  saw  nobly  grow 
Bewail  and  weep  that  they  no  more  can  know 
The  fruited  feast  thy  spirit  daily  spread. 

And  while  they  mourn  I  see  thy  youthful  head 
With  mine  o'er  Virgil's  pages  bended  low, 
To  try  to  catch  his  strain's  mellifluous  flow, 
As  every  moment  all  too  swiftly  sped. 

O  springtime  days  when  Hope  sat  high  in  state, 
Full  oft  death's  dreadful  wizardry  compels 
Your  bitter  sweetnesses  again  to  be. 

That  far,  old  time,  how  dear!    How  consecrate 
The  fairy  stories  which  it  fondly  tells! 
How  filled  to-night  with  fragrant  thoughts  of  thee! 


I   49  ] 


RESOLUTION 

O  heart,  thou  wilt  not  fail, 
O  heart,  thou  canst  not  fail: 
Let  every  ruthless  foe 
Deliver  blow  on  blow, 
Let  every  venomed  hate 
Its  keenest  hunger  sate, 
Till  all  the  ambient  air 
Seems  breathing  but  despair, 
Yet  thou  shalt  march  straight  on, 
Nor  yield,  nor  bend,  nor  fawn, 
Till  Victory's  Land  of  Light 
Looms  large  before  thy  sight. 


NOT    ENVY 

Base  Envy's  poison  cannot  foul  my  soul    . 

When  some  strong  spirit  grasps  his  yearned-for  goal; 

But  surges  then  anew  the  deep  desire 

To  be  inflamed  with  his  celestial  fire. 


LIFE    AND    DEATH 

An  owl  sat  on  a  dead  tree's  limb, 
Where,  as  the  sunset  showered  on  him 
Its  paling  gold,  we  startled  saw 
A  mangled  mouse  beneath  his  claw. 

And  then  we  fell  to  musing  there, 
Till  sudden  we  became  aware, 
From  Hesper  looming  into  sight, 
That  Day  was  in  the  grasp  of  Night. 


IMPRISONED 

My  prison  house  is  loneliness, 
Whose  jailors  are  my  fears; 

My  food  is  but  mine  own  distress, 
That's  moistened  with  my  tears, 

She  said,  and  in  her  clouded  eyes 

I  read  a  tale  of  miseries. 


THE    TRUE    COURSE 

How  gently  run  the  luring  days  along 
Upon  the  bosom  of  seductive  ease, 
My  boon  companions  nobly-striving  trees, 
And  stream  soft-throated  with  unending  song. 

The  storm-voiced  ragings  of  the  mart's  great  throng 
Fall  lightlier  on  my  drowsed  sense  than  these 
Plumed  grasses'  murmurs,  nor  does  any  breeze 
Waft  to  my  soul  the  terrors  of  a  wrong  .... 

Up  from  this  bed  of  sweet  delights  and  be 
Again  afloat  upon  the  human  sea, 
My  brother's  heart  in  beat  against  mine  own; 

Endeavor's  rock-bestudded  course  for  me, 

Though  driven,  mid  all  the  dangers  ever  known, 
To  shores  where  hopeless  ruin  reigns  alone. 


THE    HAPPINESS    OF    THIS    WORLD 

(AFTER  PLANTIN,  SIXTEENTH  CENTURY) 

A  spacious  house  to  have,  proportioned  as  is  due, 
A  garden  where  the  trellis  breathes  with  fragrant  vine, 
Few  servitors,  few  children,  fruits  and  flavorous  wine, 
In  quiet  to  possess  a  wife  that  loves  but  you; 

All  quarrels,  debts,  amours  and  lawsuits  to  eschew, 
With  kin  to  little  share,  for  nothing  more  to  pine, 
The  favors  of  the  Great  contented  to  resign, 
Your  every  plan  to  form  on  model  just  and  true; 

Exempt  from  vain  ambitions,  unconstrained  to  live, 
To  worship's  holy  rites  your  deepest  self  to  give, 
The  passions  to  subdue  until  obedient  they; 

To  keep  the  judgment  strong,  the  spirit  calm  and  free, 
In  every  stress  of  labor  still  your  prayers  to  say, 
This  is  with  faith  to  wait  serenely  death's  decree. 


[  53  ] 


CHRISTMAS    BELLS 

Ring  out,  O  heartsome  Christmas  Bells, 

Ring  clear,  and  deep,  and  long, 
Till  every  noblest  feeling  swells 

To  crush  the  mean  and  wrong; 
Till  love,  with  her  angelic  train, 

Encamps  within  the  soul, 
And  bids  her  most  melodious  strain 

Throughout  its  chambers  roll; 
Till  raging  ires' 
Pernicious  fires 

In  all  the  lands  die  down  and  cease, 
While  reigns  supreme  the  King  of  Peace. 

Ring  out,  ye  Christmas  Bells! 

Ring  out,  O  sacred  Christmas  Bells, 

Ring  far,  and  loud,  and  long, 
Till  once  again  within  us  swells 

That  old,  earth-given  song, 
First  heard  beneath  the  wondrous  ray 

Which  led  the  Magians  where 
An  infant  all  divinely  lay, 

And  breathed  immortal  air; 

[  54  1 


Till  we  shall  heed 

His  simple  creed, 

And  learn,  as  on  we  stumbling  go, 
To  love  is  better  than  to  know. 

Ring  out,  ye  Christmas  Bells! 

Ring  out,  O  memoried  Christmas  Bells, 

Ring  sweet,  and  low,  and  long, 
Till  every  bosom  gently  swells 

With  thoughts,  in  grieving  throng, 
Of  brightsome  eyes  that  fondly  shone 

On  ours  this  hallowed  day, 
Of  lips  that  spake  with  tenderest  tone, 
Now  passed  from  earth  away; 
But  while  we  hear 
The  bells  ring  clear, 
Those  eyes  again  with  fondness  shine, 
Those  lips  bespeak  a  joy  divine. 

Ring  out,  ye  Christmas  Bells! 


55 


UNDER  THE   BAY 


ON    LOOKING   AT    A    PICTURE    OF 
WORDSWORTH 

Immortal    Wordsworth,  as  thy  pictured  face, 
With  all  its  placid  calm,  its  brow  serene, 
Its  mild,  benignant  majesty  of  mien, 
Moves  me  to-day  as  with  unwonted  grace, 

I  fain  would  yield,  if  only  for  a  space, 
My  soul  to  thee  completely,  and  so  clean 
My  thoughts  of  all  impurities  terrene, 
That  they  with  thine  might  dare  to  interlace. 

Thou  deep-voiced  singer  of  soul-quickening  song; 
Thou  nature's  child  to  being's  very  core ; 
Simple  in  all  thy  ways,  yet  bold  and  strong; 

One  that  to  loftiest  mountain-top  could  soar 
With  unlaborious  wing,  yet  skim  along, 
No  less  at  ease,  the  valley's  daisied  floor. 


[  59  ] 


TO    TENNYSON 

As  comes  to  all,  so  thou  didst  pass  away 
To  that  unfathomable,  dark  beyond, 
Before  whose  mysteries  thine  enchanting  wand 
Stirred  soulful  music  to  her  deepest  play; 

And  meet  it  was  that  when  Death  came,  to  lay 
His  ringer  on  that  brain  of  dream  so  fond, 
Thy  soul  should  yearn  for  Shakespeare's  golden  bond 
To  bind  the  moments  of  thy  closing  day.* 

Thou  deftest  master  of  poetic  art, 

Whose  verse  is  tinct  with  noble  dignity, 
And  makes  of  England  an  immortal  part! 

Familiar  things  are  glorified  by  thee, 

While  dullest  blood  leaps  lightly  through  the  heart 
At  thy  far-sounding  song  of  chivalry. 


*  "  On  the  bed  a  figure  of  breathing  marble,  flooded  and  bathed  in 
the  light  of  the  full  moon  streaming  through  the  oriel  window;  his 
hand  clasping  the  Shakespeare  which  he  had  asked  for  but  recently, 
and  which  he  had  kept  by  him  to  the  end." — Extract  from  the  Medical 
Bulletin  of  Dr.  Dabbs — Tennyson's  attending  physician. 


SWINBURNE 

What  words  are  his  of  myriad,  dazzling  dyes, 
That  on  the  heart  entrancing  beauty  throw; 
What  streams  of  melody  he  bids  to  flow, 
As  passion's  ecstasy  each  humor  tries; 

But  where  the  thought  mid  cloying  sweetness  lies, 
Or  oft  is  lost  in  waste  of  wordy  show, 
Or  screams  discordant  at  some  hated  foe, 
Till  Art  lamenting  pitifully  sighs  .... 

And  yet  how  great  his  Drama:    Mary  here 

Immortal  moves  through  maze  of  love  and  crime; 
Here  Knox  forever  shakes  his  priestly  spear; 

Here  Bothwell  schemes,  the  Satan  of  his  time; 
And  here  antiquity  we  newly  con 
In  Atalanta's  chase  in  Calydon. 


[  61   ] 


TO  WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 

Landor,  thou  art,  in  truth,  the  one  unique; 
A  Briton,  yet  a  Roman  and  a  Greek, 
And  still  no  less  Italian;  in  all  time 
Breathing  ambrosial  airs  of  every  clime; 
Who  all  the  spoils  of  all  the  ages  stored, 
And  drew  such  honey  from  thy  heaping  hoard, 
That  we  who  read  thee  pause  and  pause  again 
In  wonder  at  the  marvels  of  thy  pen. 


A  lettered  Titan,  thou,  so  greatly  great, 
Thou  sittest  throned  in  high  imperial  state, 
Like  some  immortal  God  that  keeps  his  place 
In  lonely  grandeur  of  unconquered  space, 
With  none  so  venturesome  as  dare  dispute 
His  rule  as  being  less  than  absolute, 
And  who,  impregnably  contented,  knows 
That  on  the  centuries  he  shall  repose. 


HEREDIA    DEAD 

OCTOBER    3,    1905 

Vainly  you'll  call  importunate  and  long 
On  him  to  add  fresh  jewels  to  his  store, 
For  muse-beloved  he  dwells  forevermore 
With  all  the  crowned  ones  of  his  deathless  song. 

And  in  the  midst  of  that  imperial  throng, 
Now  newly  splendored  by  his  sonnet-lore, 
Fame  gently  seats  him  and  delights  to  score 
Her  beadroll  with  his  name  in  letters  strong; 

For  though  he  felt  not  passion's  noblest  ire 

That  bears  the  uttered  thought  on  wings  of  fire, 
Nor  made  his  numbers  all  the  vastness  sweep, 

Yet  he  was  Art's,  and  drank  of  her  desire, 
Until  Imagination,  true  and  deep, 
Burst  into  beauty  on  his  flawless  lyre. 


TO   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL 

AUGUST    12,    1891 

Lowell,  thou  art  not  dead;  thou  canst  not  die 
Till  Letters'  children  all  shall  cease  to  be; 
Till  dawns  the  day  (but  who  such  day  may  see?) 
When  Art's  innumerous  crystal  springs  run  dry; 

When  Fancy  skims  no  more  the  meads  that  lie 
In  fadeless  green,  and,  doomed  by  death's  decree, 
Imagination's  mighty  majesty 
No  longer  ranges  thought's  besplendored  sky. 

Thou  art  the  perfectest  of  all  the  flowers 

That  yet  have  blossomed  on  New  England's  soil  — 
Blending  great  character  with  stintless  powers, 

And  making  every  literature  thy  spoil; 
While  all  thy  years  thy  jewel-crusted  pen 
Sent  thrilling  message  to  the  hearts  of  men. 


PROFESSOR   JOSEPH    LE    CONTE    AT 
YOSEMITE,    JULY    4-6,  1901 

"  If  it  were  now  to  die, 
'Twere  now  to  be  most  happy." 

—Othello,  Act  II,  Scene  I. 

His  hoary  head,  lustrous  with  all  that's  best 
Of  humankind,  by  fame  immortal  made, 
In  death's  last  agony  he  fitly  laid 
Upon  Yosemite's  titanic  breast. 

For  years  their  mutual  love  had  been  confessed, 
And  when  once  more  her  glories  he  surveyed, 
His  raptured  heart  such  ecstasy  betrayed, 
Fate  dared  not  tempt  him  further  to  be  blest. 

Her  beauteous  leaves  of  cedar,  oak  and  pine, 
She  lavish  gave  for  garlands  to  entwine 
His  cofBn  fashioned  from  her  teeming  store; 

And  'neath  the  reverent  gaze  of  her  great  walls, 
While  throbbed  in  muffled  tones  her  saddened  falls, 
His  clay,  star-lighted,  left  her  evermore. 


HENRY  GEORGE 

He,  like  some  prophet  in  the  days  of  old, 
Took  every  fainting  heart  into  his  own, 
And  sought  assuagement  of  the  dreadful  moan 
Forever  rising  and  by  nought  controlled. 

Against  the  giant  wrongs,  whose  coils  enfold 
The  burden-wearied  souls  that  hopeless  groan, 
His  flaming  message  flew  as  if  'twere  blown 
By  all  the  woes  that  earth  has  ever  told. 

His  love  was  man's  until  his  latest  day, 

When,  battling  'gainst  corruption's  foul  array, 
He  fell,  to  flood  with  glory  all  the  scene. 

Alas!    Alas!    the  world  has  lost  him  now, 
But  men  will  look  to  it  that  on  his  brow 
The  laurel  keeps  imperishably  green. 


POPE 

The  choicest  vintage  of  ambrosial  wine 

He  knew  not,  nor  the  harmonies  divine, 

But  who  has  matched,  or  who  shall  hope  to  match, 

The  wit  and  sparkle  of  his  rapier  line? 


CHRISTOPHER  SMART 

Smart  was  the  marvel  of  his  sapless  time: 

To  scribble  reams  of  empty,  futile  rhyme, 

Then  in  a  phrensy  of  poetic  art  — 

Crazed  in  his  brain  and  saddened  in  his  heart  - 

To  pour  his  soul  into  one  mighty  song, 

Where  sparkling  gems  aboundingly  so  throng, 

And  blaze  with  such  imaginative  light, 

That  every  year  shall  gladden  in  their  sight  — 

A  deathless  song  with  nature's  ruin  bought; 

No  wonder  his  own  century  knew  him  not! 


OSCAR    WILDE 

Say  that  his  bosom  nursed  black  pools  of  mire, 
Where  venomed  snakes  their  lustful  poison  bred, 
On  which  in  bestial  mood  he  weakly  fed 
Until  Law  smote  him  with  relentless  ire; 

Yet  in  his  soul  still  flamed  celestial  fire; 
And  Beauty's  lovely  legions  wide  outspread 
Her  conquering  banner  there,  as  raptured  sped 
The  songs  that  shook  his  music-breathing  lyre. 

His  dungeon's  foulness  leaves  no  speck  or  stain 
Upon  the  white  refulgence  of  his  strain, 
Nor  bars  its  way  along  the  loving  years; 

Nor  takes  the  least  from  his  all  priceless  gain, 
That  at  the  last  he  calmed  his  spirit's  fears, 
And  died  embathed  in  his  repentant  tears. 


THE    MUSIC    OF    WORDS 

(TENNYSON  said  in  one  of  his  talks  that  "People  do  not 
understand  the  music  of  words.") 

To  give  to  Beauty  her  surpassing  meed 
As  gemmed  she  lies  immaculately  fair; 
To  paint  the  hopes  that  end  in  fell  despair, 
While  tones  mellifluous  every  passion  feed; 

To  follow  Fancy's  fairy  kin  that  lead 

Through  vales  of  Dream  embathed  in  drowseful  air, 

Or  on  Imagination's  heights  to  dare, 

What  dulcet,  rolling,  golden  words  we  need  — 

Such  words  as  thine,  thou  mighty,  crowned  one, 
Who,  like  some  inextinguishable  sun, 
Shall  light  the  heavens  of  man  forevermore; 

Such  words  as  Homer  sent,  long,  long  ago, 
With  music  winged,  through  Greece's  heart  of  woe, 
Or  such  as  Shakespeare  made  divinely  soar. 


69 


UNDER  THE  CYPRESS 


INVOCATION    TO    THE    MUSE 

Lend  me  the  sounds  from  music's  honeyed  store 
Of  every  soothing  softness  crystal  clear, 
To  wing  the  words  beyond  all  others  dear 
To  Poesy's  supernal,  deathless  lore; 

Lend  me  the  sounds  of  ocean's  tempest  roar 
Presaging  all  that  man  can  feel  of  fear, 
To  wing  the  words  so  awfully  austere 
That  Hope  herself  to  hear  them  would  give  o'er. 

Then  might  I  dare  to  sing  her  beauty's  bloom, 
And  how  within  my  heart's  supreme  desire 
The  chief est  thing  of  loveliness  she  lay; 

And  dare  to  sing  that  huge,  appalling  gloom 
When  death  fell  on  her  with  immediate  ire, 
To  bear  her  from  my  helpless  arms  away. 


f   73   1 


FROM   JOY    TO    WOE 

A  music  fell  upon  mine  ear 
As  though  from  some  celestial  sphere, 
Then  sudden  ceased,  and  discord's  clang 
Throughout  my  heart  remorseless  rang. 
Alas,  what  awful  woe 
In  human  heart  may  grow!  — 
What  dreadful  thought  to  stab  a  man, 
That  Heaven  from  Hell  is  but  a  span! 


THE    KISS    OF    PEACE 

An  angel  met  me  in  the  wood, 
Where  I  unreconciled  had  fled 
To  scape  the  face  of  my  dear  dead. 
She  led  me  where  her  sister  stood 
With  radiant  face  and  lifted  head; 
Whereat  they  kissed  me  on  the  cheek, 
But  not  a  word  did  either  speak. 
They  vanished,  but  I  knew  that  they 
Had  brought  me  flower  of  peace  that  day. 


[  74  ] 


DREAMS 

I  know  not  why  so  wearisome  to  me 
My  necessary  tasks  appear  to-day, 
Save  that  my  brood  of  dreams  is  fain  to  play 
Where  all  things  beautiful  are  wont  to  be. 

This  very  moment  do  I  feel  so  free, 

That  nought  can  hold  me  under  tasking  sway, 
As  borne  beyond  the  city's  strenuous  way 
I  float  in  soundless,  deep  serenity. 

And  now  the  mountains  woo  me  ever  on, 

And  many  a  lake  lays  bare  its  crystal  breast, 
While  scene  on  scene  its  pillared  beauty  rears.  .  .  . 

O  dreams  that  mock!    for  from  me  SHE  has  gone 
Who  shared  these  joys  with  me;  and  grief-oppressed 
I  sink  to  earth  overweighted  with  my  tears. 


[  75  ] 


WITH    SORROW 

Sweet  Sorrow,  with  thy  hooded,  tear-brimmed  eyes, 
Companion  me  this  lonely,  leaden  day; 
Lead  me  from  clamors  and  delights  away, 
To  silent  list  my  heart's  deep-muffled  cries. 

Though  death  made  my  dear  one  his  precious  prize 
I've  borne  straight  on,  no  duty  to  betray, 
Nor  dared  one  golden-hearted  hour  to  slay 
With  fatal  bane  of  solitary  sighs. 

But  when  at  times  her  doom  upon  mine  ear 
Relentless  beats,  I  faltering  pause  to  hear, 
And  feel  an  agony  no  power  can  stay. 

Some  things  of  such  eternal  strength  appear, 

That  past  all  thought  or  dream  seems  their  decay. 

,  Sweet  Sorrow,  take  me,  I  am  thine  to-day. 


THE    FOG    ROLLS    IN 

The  fog  rolls  in  as  it  has  rolled 
For  years  that  never  can  be  told, 
And  all  the  sky  of  sombre-gray 
Makes  drearier  still  the  dreary  day; 

And  hearts  still  ache 

Until  they  break, 
As  it  has  been  with  Death  alway. 

But  though  the  fog  be  deeper  rolled 
The  sun's  above  it  as  of  old; 
No  sky  can  be  so  sombre-gray, 
But  that  the  blue  will  have  its  way; 

And  hearts  will  wake 

For  love's  dear  sake, 
As  it  has  been  with  Life  alway. 


[   77 


MOURN    NOT 

Mourn  not  thy  dead,  although  they  may  have  shone 
With  fondest  radiance  on  thy  lessening  years, 
Nor  sink  appalled  before  the  fatal  shears 
That  bid  thy  treasured  ones  to  leave  thee  lone. 

Mourn  not  the  seed  thy  hands  have  left  unsown, 
That  might  have  joyed  in  golden-gloried  ears; 
Nor  mourn  thine  evil  hours,  thy  craven  fears, 
Nor  fortune's  favors  which  thou  couldst  not  own. 

All  these  are  gone,  nor  canst  thou  call  them  back, 
Though  on  their  far-receding,  darksome  track 
The  voice  of  every  grief  were  joined  with  thine. 

Then  seize,  new-hearted,  on  the  living  Now, 

And  march  straightforward,  with  unshaken  vow, 
Beneath's  Hope's  gladdening,  promise-blazoned  sign. 


1 78 


TO    DEATH 

Thou  monster  Death,  that  dost  no  mercy  show 
To  least  or  greatest  of  the  earthly  train; 
That  hast  made  horrible  thine  endless  reign 
With  tear-cemented  monuments  of  woe; 

Thou  angel  Death,  that  kindly  dost  bestow 
Release  from  hopeless  ill,  from  torturing  pain, 
From  life's  engulfing  flood  where  fiercely  strain 
The  desperate  souls  that  faint  and  sink  below; 

Like  Love  thou  art  as  old  as  oldest  eld, 
Yet  ever  new  as  is  the  wondrous  child 
This  moment  blossomed  on  its  mother's  breast; 

And  since  the  time  that  thou  wast  first  beheld, 
When  Order's  music  rang  through  Chaos  wild, 
Life  has  by  thee  been  nourished  and  caressed. 


[  79 


THE    TOMB    AND    THE    ROSE 

(AFTER  VICTOR  HUGO) 

The  Tomb  said  to  the  Rose :    "  Love's  own, 
What  mak'st  thou  of  the  tears  bestrewn 
By  lovely,  dewy  dawn  o'er  thee?" 
The  Rose  said  to  the  Tomb :    "  And  pray, 
What  comes  of  that  which  feeds  alway 
Thy  gulf  that  yawns  eternally?" 

Then  said  the  Rose :    "  O  sombre  Tomb, 

I  make  of  them  a  rare  perfume 

Where  honey  with  the  amber  lies." 

Then  said  the  Tomb :    "  O  plaintive  Flower, 

Of  every  soul  that  feels  my  power 

I  make  an  angel  of  the  skies ! " 


IN    THE    CEMETERY    OF    .... 

(AFTER  VICTOR  HUGO) 

The  laughing  living  crowd  by  folly  still  is  led, 

At  times  where  pleasure  rules,  at  times  where  anguish 

lies, 

But  here  these  all  forgotten,  silent,  lonely  dead 
On  me,  a  dreamer,  fix  their  sad,  regardful  eyes. 

They  know  me  to  be  man  of  solitary  mood, 

A  musing,  strolling  one  that  on  the  trees  attends, 

The  soul  that  sadly  learns,  from  sorrow's  countless 

brood, 
In  trouble  all  begins,  in  peace  all  trouble  ends! 

Ah,  well  they  note  the  pensive,  reverent  mien  of  mine 
Mid  crosses,  graves  and  boxwood,  while  they  mutely  list 
To  all  the  dying  leaves  that  'neath  my  foot  repine; 
And  they  have  watched  me  dream  in  woods  cool  shades 
have  kissed. 

O  blatant  living  ones  of  strife  and  mad  unrest, 

My  flowing  voice  falls  better  on  these  dead  ones'  ears! 


My  lyre's  sweet  hymns  that  lie  deep  hidden  in  my  breast 
That  are  but  songs  for  you,  for  them  are  gushing  tears. 

Forgotten  by  the  living,  nature  still  is  theirs: 
In  death's  all  silent  garden,  where  we  end  our  dreams, 
In  more  celestial  garb,  and  calmer,  dawn  appears, 
The  bird  is  lovelier  still,  the  lily  purer  seems. 

'Tis  there  I  live!  —  there  pluck  the  rose  of  pallid  face, 

Console  with  tombs  that  lie  in  desolation  rent; 

I  pass,  repass,  the  branches  tenderly  displace, 

And  stir  the  sighing  grass ;  —  the  dead  they  are  content. 

'Tis  there  I  dream;  and  roaming  many  a  drowseful 

space, 

With  thought-enwidened  eyes  I  marvellously  see 
My  very  soul  transformed  as  in  some  magic  place, 
That  mystery-filled  reflects  the  vast  immensity. 

'Tis  revery's  fond  ideal  fills  my  vision  there, 
Floating  in  shining  veil  between  the  earth  and  me; 
And  there  my  ingrate  doubts  are  melted  into  prayer: 
For  standing  I  begin  and  end  upon  my  knee. 


The  wandering  beetles  there  I  indolently  watch, 

The  wavering  branches,  forms,  and  color-glinting  gleams, 

And  on  the  fallen  stones  reposing  love  to  catch 

The  dazzlings  of  the  flowers  and  of  the  myriad  beams. 

As  in  the  rock,  whose  hollow  drips  in  sunless  gloom, 
For  drop  of  water  seeks  the  thirsty,  humble  dove, 
So  now  my  altered  spirit  seeks  the  shadeful  tomb, 
To  drink,  if  but  a  sip,  of  faith,  of  hope  and  love. 


RECONCILIATION 

Thou  heart-bereaved,  complaining  mite, 
Why  blink  at  God's  eternal  light, 
Why  make  an  individual  night 

Of  cowardly  despair? 
In  the  vast  universe  divine 
Sink  every  grief  and  woe  of  thine, 
And  thou  wilt  nevermore  repine, 

But  sing  in  triumph  there. 


RAMBLINGS 


BOAT    SONG 

Where  the  river  murmurs  music 
To  the  purple-wreathed  hours, 
While  the  leaning,  lovely  willow 
On  the  wave  its  beauty  showers; 
Where  the  stately,  towering  redwoods 
Mighty  lords  of  nature  seem, 
Float  we  gently  in  the  twilight, 
Float  we  gently  as  in  dream. 

Though  the  saucy  rocks  would  bar  us, 
Onward,  onward  still  we  glide, 
Till  the  placid  pools  receive  us, 
Reaching  far,  and  deep,  and  wide; 
Resting  then  upon  the  bosom 
Of  the  music-murmuring  stream, 
Float  we  gently  in  the  twilight, 
Float  we  gently  as  in  dream. 


MY    SECRET 

(AFTER  FELIX  ARVERS) 

My  soul  its  secret  has,  my  life  its  mystery: 

'Tis  an  eternal  love  an  instant  saw  conceived. 

My  pain's  beyond  all  hope,  so  silent  I  must  be, 

While  she,  the  cause,  knows  not  that  I  am  sore  bereaved. 

Alas!    I  shall  have  passed  anear  her  unperceived, 
Still  by  her  side  and  yet  a  lonely  one  to  see, 
And  shall  have  served  on  earth  to  life's  extreme   degree, 
Not  daring  aught  to  ask,  and  having  nought  received. 

Though  God  has  made  her  sweet  and  infinitely  dear, 
With  heedless  mind  she'll  go  her  way,  and  never  hear 
The  whispering  tones  of  love  that  all  her  steps  attend. 

Beneath  the  pious  yoke  of  duty's  rigid  sway, 

When  she  reads  o'er  this  verse  all  full  of  her,  she'll   say, 

"This  woman,  who  is  she?"  and  will  not  comprehend. 


88 


THE    LADY'S    ANSWER 

(AFTER  LOUIS  AIGOIN) 

My  friend,  wherefore  aver,  with  so  much  mystery, 
That  the  eternal  love  within  your  breast  conceived 
Is  pain  beyond  all  hope,  a  secret  that  must  be; 
And  why  suppose  that  she  may  know  not  you're 
bereaved? 

Ah  no,  you  did  not  pass  anear  her  unperceived, 
Nor  should  you  deem  yourself  a  lonely  one  to  see; 
The  best  beloved  may  serve  to  life's  extreme  degree, 
Not  daring  aught  to  ask,  and  having  nought  received. 

The  good  God  gives  to  us  a  knowing  heart  and  dear, 
And  on  our  way  we  find  that  it  is  sweet  to  hear 
The  whispering  tones  of  love  that  all  our  steps  attend. 

She  who  would  meekly  bow  to  duty's  rigid  sway, 
Reading  your  verse  of  her,  felt  more  than  she  can   say 
For  though  she  spake  no  word,  .  .  .  she  well  did 
comprehend. 


MY    LADY    SLEEPS 

My  lady  sleeps,  and  sleeps  in  childlike  peace; 
No  tear-drop  stains  her  lovely,  restful  face, 
While  placid  smiles  do  there  each  other  chase, 
To  give  assurance  of  her  pain's  release. 

Her  head  low  sinking  in  the  pillow's  crease 
In  deep  repose  I  fain  would  now  embrace, 
Till  in  my  heart,  as  in  some  holy  place, 
Joy  swelled  to  thankfulness  without  surcease. 

O  Sleep,  thou  top  of  blessings!    What  to  thee 
Does  grief-struck,  ache-tormented  man  not  owe, 
Or  how,  without  thee,  from  his  miseries  flee? 

And  now  that  thou  my  lady's  couch  dost  know, 
From  torture's  agony  to  set  her  free, 
Thou  beam'st  upon  me  with  divinest  glow. 


SONG 

Dear  love,  around  me  fold  thine  arms, 
And  lay  thy  cheek  against  mine  own, 
Where  nested  safe  from  all  alarms, 
My  heart  shall  be  thy  firm-set  throne. 

Reign  there  beloved,  reign  alone, 
With  sceptre  fashioned  of  thy  charms, 
Till  winged  by  death  we  shall  have  flown 
Beyond  the  reach  of  passion's  harms. 


THE    ROSE 

Thou  lovely  Rose,  I  cannot  now  but  sigh, 
To  see  thy  petals  thus  dismembered  lie  .  . 
Lament  not  me:  SHE  wore  me  in  her  hair 
Ah,  then  I  lived  unnumbered  hours  there. 


1 91 


IN    THE    CONVENT    GARDEN 

(LAST  SCENE  OF  CYRANO  DE  BERGERAC) 

Steeped  in  autumnal  dyes  the  mournful  leaves 
With  sad  insistence  flutter  to  the  ground, 
And  blend  their  voices  with  the  vespers'  sound,  • 
To  soothe  the  heart  that  still  for  Christian  grieves. 

Beneath  the  sighing  trees  her  bosom  heaves; 

For  memories  throng,  while  he  that  in  her  bound 
Brings  worldly  word  comes  not  —  he  whom, 

thorn-crowned, 
She  still,  as  ever,  blindly  misconceives. 

At  last  all  worn  he  comes  with  feeble  breath, 
In  whose  sweet  tenderness  preluding  death 
Throbs  strangely  new  a  note  from  love's  past  years 

It  tells  that  he,  not  Christian,  won  her  kiss, 
That  his,  not  Christian's,  pen  had  fed  her  bliss, 
And  that  Remorse  shall  fill  her  cup  with  tears. 


r  92 


A    WAIF 

A  lustrum  and  of  years  two  score 
Have  passed  since  she  the  sheet  ran  o'er 
Which,  newly  found,  before  me  lies, 
While  I,  with  retrospective  eyes, 
Tear-dimmed,  upon  it  muse  and  pore. 

How  strange  that  to  my  distant  shore 
So  slight  a  waif  from  land  of  yore 
Should  float  surcharged  with  heavy  sighs 
Of  long-gone  years. 

Her  cheeks  that  love's  rich  roses  wore, 
When  she  penned  this,  now  bloom  no  more; 
And  yet,  O  Death,  that  scorned  my  cries, 
I  thank  thee  for  this  welcome  prize 
Safe  housed  with  memory's  myriad  store 
Of  long-gone  years. 


[  93  ] 


AN    OPERA    CLOAK 

Poor,  cast-off  opera  cloak  that  shows 
Your  pride  from  hidden,  long  repose, 
I  smile  to  note  the  scornful  eye 
Wherewith  my  dear  now  puts  you  by, 
Though  richly  wrought  with  broidered  rose. 

But  ah,  with  what  delight,  who  knows, 
She  donned  you  first  to  list  to  those 
Rare  strains  that  swelled  in  triumph  high, 
When  Patti  sang. 

Mad  fashion's  blight  upon  you  blows, 
The  diva's  days  now  tuneless  close, 
Yet  she  that  dooms  your  death  and  I 
Have  bred  a  love  that  dares  not  die, 
Though  we  have  borne  heart-rending  woes 
Since  Patti  sang. 


[  94  ] 


IN    MEMORY 

Full  oft  it  was  as  balmy  night 
Wove  many  a  web  of  dreamy  light, 
The  moon  so  touched  her  budding  charms, 
I  feared  for  my  enfolding  arms, 
That  held  her  close. 

And  so,  on  one  forbidding  night, 
That  knew  no  moon's  caressing  light, 
All  withered  lay  her  blossomed  charms 
In  envious  death's  relentless  arms, 
That  held  her  close. 

But  oft  again  in  memory's  night 
The  moon  refloods  the  scene  with  light, 
And  lovelier  still,  her  wakened  charms 
Rejoice  my  fond,  enfolding  arms, 
That  hold  her  close. 


[  95  ] 


COME    NEAR    ME    WHEN    I    SLEEP 

(AFTER  VICTOR  HUGO) 

Oh,  when  I  sleep,  come  closely  to  my  couch 

As  did  fair  Laura  to  Petrarca's  side, 

And  as  I  feel  thy  breathing's  balmy  touch  ...  — 

Sudden  my  lips 

Will  part  to  thine. 

When  on  my  brow,  where  then  perchance  some  dream 
Of  darkness  settles  which  too  long  would  bide, 
Thy  lovely  eyes  look  down  with  starry  beam  ...  — 

Sudden  my  dream 

Will  brightly  shine. 

Then  if  my  lips,  whose  fluttering  flame  has  learned 

Love's  lightning  God  himself  has  purified, 

Are  kissed  by  thee  —  to  woman  angel  turned  ...  — 

Sudden  will  wake 
.  This  soul  of  mine. 


1 96 


CLEOPATRA 

(AFTER  ALBERT  SAMAIN) 

Leaned  on  the  tower's  battlements,  all  silent  she, 
The  Queen,  with  radiant  locks  that  fillets  closely  bind, 
Allured  by  perfume's  spells  full  troublous  to  the  mind, 
Feels  mounting  in  her  heart  Love's  vast,  unresting  sea. 

Beneath  her  violet  eyes,  moveless,  to  dream  resigned, 
She  sinks  into  her  cushions'  softly-sheltering  nest, 
While  necklaces  of  gold  deep  heaving  on  her  breast 
Bespeak  her  languishment  and  fevers  unconfined. 

Upon  the  monuments'  fronts  day's  last  rose-tints  are 

spilled. 

The  eve,  in  velvety  shade,  is  with  enchantments  filled; 
While  meantime  as  far  distant  cry  the  crocodiles, 

The  Queen,  with  fingers  clinched,  sobbing  her  heart 

away, 

Thrills  to  the  bone  to  feel  the  artful,  prurient  wiles 
Of  hands  that  in  the  wind  with  all  her  tresses  play. 


[  97  ] 


THE    CONDOR'S    SLEEP 

(AFTER  LECONTE  DE  LISLE) 

Beyond  the  Cordilleras'  stairs  that  steeply  wind, 
Beyond  the  eagle's  haunts  in  mist-enshrouded  air, 
And  higher  than  the  cratered,  furrowed  summits  where 
The  boiling  flood  of  lava  rages  unconfined, 
His  pendent  pinions  tinct  with  spots  of  crimson  dye, 
The  great  bird  silent  views,  with  indolent,  dull  stare, 
America  and  space  outreaching  boundless  there, 
And  that  now  sombre  sun  which  dies  in  his  cold  eye. 
Night  rolls  from  out  the  East,  where  savage  pampas   lie 
Beneath  the  tier  on  tier  of  peaks  in  endless  line; 
It  Chili  lulls,  the  shores,  the  cities'  roar  and  cry, 
The  grand  Pacific  Sea,  and  horizon  all  divine; 
The  silent  continent  its  close  embraces  hide: 
On  sands  and  hills,  in  gorges,  on  declivities, 
And  on  the  heights,  now  swell,  in  widening  vortices, 
The  heavy  flood  and  flow  of  its  high-rolling  tide. 
Upon  a  lofty  peak,  alone,  like  spectre  grim, 
Bathed  in  a  light  that  dies  in  crimson  on  the  snow, 
He  waits  this  direful  sea  that  threats  him  as  a  foe: 
It  comes,  it  breaks  in  foam,  then  dashes  over  him. 
As  in  the  unsounded  depths  the  Southern  Cross  now 
looms 

[  98  ] 


Upon  the  sky's  vast  shore  a  pharos-glowing  light, 
His  rattling  throat  speaks  joy,  he  proudly  shakes  his 

plumes, 

His  muscular,  peeled  neck  he  lifts  and  stretches  tight; 
To  raise  himself  he  gives  the  hard  snow  lashing  stings; 
Then  with  a  raucous  cry  he  mounts  where  no  winds  are. 
And  from  the  dark  globe  far,  far  from  the  living  star, 
In  the  icy  air  he  sleeps  on  grand,  outspreading  wings. 


MY    SUMMER 

Once  more  stern  winter  comes  apace 
With  chilling  wind  and  lowering  sky, 
But  summer  still  makes  glad  thy  face, 
And  in  its  warmth  I  restful  lie. 


[  99  ] 


THE    EAGLE 

On  a  lone  crag,  where  Storm's  wild  children  nest 
Mid  glacier's  ice  and  vast,  unmelting  snows, 
The  lordly  Eagle  stands,  while  Morning  throws 
Her  spears  of  golden  light  against  his  breast. 

Deep  stirs  within  him  an  unwonted  zest, 
And  as  the  verdurous  vale's  serene  repose 
Alluring  spreads,  in  scorn  of  waiting  foes 
He  downward  sweeps  in  majesty  confessed. 

But  scarce  his  wings  were  folded  from  their  flight, 
When  man's  disloyal  rifle  smote  the  air, 
And  limp  he  fell  in  death's  unending  night ;  — 

And  when  the  hours  had  drearily  dragged  on, 
His  mate,  in  desolation's  dumb  despair, 
Gazed  at  the  vale  rewakening  to  the  dawn. 


THE    COCK'      j,  -     ;£Yi2 

Adown  his  neck,  upcurving-  high, 
His  plumes  in  golden  radiance  flowed, 
With  gleaming  bronze  his  body  glowed, 
While  all  his  tail  of  sable  dye 
Waved  banner-like  as  proud  he  strode. 

His  comb  in  scarlet  glory  shone 

Above  an  eye  of  stern  delight, 

And  bits  of  rainbow  tinted  bright 

His  breast,  as  with  resounding  tone 

His  clarion  shook  the  neighboring  height. 

For  all  the  filth  that  reeked  around 
The  purlieu's  street  he  had  no  care; 
He  glorified  its  earth  and  air, 
And  with  a  flawless  beauty  crowned 
Strode  on  in  lonely  splendor  there. 


[    101    ] 


T;H£  ORCHARD 

(AFTER  EDMOND  ROSTAND) 


(The  original  of  the  following  version  was  published  in  the 
November  28th,  1903,  number  of  Harper's  Weekly,  with  the  following 
introduction :  "  The  following  verses  were  written  by  M.  ROSTAND, 
the  Academician  and  playwright,  on  the  occasion  of  a  performance 
given  recently  in  Paris  in  aid  of  the  Actors'  Home.  This  home  — 
the  '  Maison  des  Comediens  ' —  is  for  actors  who  have  grown  old  in 
their  profession,  and  is  situated  at  Couilly,  near  Paris.  It  will  be 
opened  during  the  coming  year.  The  verses  are  dedicated  to 
M.  COQUELIN,  who,  as  President  of  the  French  Society  of  Actors,  was 
largely  instrumental  in  making  the  Maison  des  Comediens  possible.") 

What  orchard's  this  wherein  the  Cid  recites  his  strain 
With  tremulous  voice  beneath  the  sun's  warm,  genial 

light? 

Where  not  so  eager  now  of  folly  to  complain, 
Since  whitening  fast  he  sees  the  locks  of  Celimene, 
With  leaves  of  living  green  Alceste  his  coat  makes 

bright? 
What  orchard's  this  wherein  the  Cid  recites  his  strain? 

Its  distances  in  golden  glory  melt  away; 
Smooth-faced  as  some  old  Marquis,  all  the  strollers 
there. 


[     102    ] 


What  Park  is  this  wherein  thy  soul  of  frolic  play 
—  Thy  great  soul  seeming  but  the  trivial  to  essay!  .  .  . — 
Breathes  deep  the  lovely  landscape's  fresh,  delicious  air  ... 
Beneath  a  sky  whose  golden  glory  melts  away? 

Old  dames  who  seem  to  owe  to  art  their  aged  air        » 
Pluck  blooms  where  insects  flash  their  emerald-tinted 

dyes. 

No  more  the  reeking  den!    No  more  gloom's  dull  despair! 
And  on  all  sides  the  Garden  looking  to  the  skies! 
While  underneath  the  boughs  in  pensive  meekness  fare 
Old  dames  who  seem  to  owe  to  art  their  aged  air. 

A  time-worn  shawl  is  draped  as  with  a  princess'  hand; 
Hernani  buttons  on  a  box-coat  out  of  date; 
The  names  that  light  their  past  incessant  they 

command.  .  .  . 

A  Frederick  one  has  heard,  and  one,  Rachel  the  great! 
And  then  the  trees  become  an  audience  ranged  in  state, 
Where  time-worn  shawl  is  draped  as  with  a  princess' 

hand! 

Here  sadness  flits  away  like  curtain  upward  rolled. 
Not  in  the  least  be  lost  the  dreams  that  follow  you, 

[   103  J 


You  that  to  us  bore  cups  of  dream  in  days  of  old; 
And,  charmers  of  our  evenings,  now  that  yours  are  told, 
Why  should  we  not  your  footlights  place  beneath  the 

blue? 
Here  sadness  flits  away  like  curtain  upward  rolled. 

What  wide-spread  orchard's  this  all  filled  with  revery's 

haze 

And  with  comedians  gay,  like  park  by  Watteau  made? 
Where  wandering  Mascarille,  without  his  mask  and 

blade, 

Dons  now  his  theatre-cloak,  as  fancy's  vision  plays, 
When  soft  the  pine-trees  fleck  his  mantle  with  their 

shade?  .  .  . 
What  beauteous  orchard's  this  all  filled  with  revery's 

haze? 

What  beauteous  orchard's  this  a  Moliere  makes  his  own, 

All  pensive  as  he  feels  the  soil's  deep  love  control 

The  ivy's  arms  around  his  marble  to  be  thrown, 

And  smiling  as  he  sees  Elmire  and  Dona  Sol 

Within  the  arbor  chat  in  kind,  familiar  tone? 

What  beauteous  orchard's  this  a  Moliere  makes  his  own? 


[   104  ] 


The  moving  vines  festooned  upon 

The  arbor  have  no  fictive  guise. 

The  pate's  not  from  pasteboard  drawn 

Which  down  the  throat  of  Gringoire  hies! 

Misfortune's  child  no  longer  sighs; 

Leander  now  is  castellan; 

Stirs  Buridan  while  Scapin  lies. 

The  orchard  this  of  Coquelin. 

The  villain  now  on  sheep  would  fawn; 
The  lover  every  calyx  tries, 
His  piping  voice  forever  gone.  .  .  . 
Yet  on  the  side-scenes  keeps  his  eyes! 
In  lakelet,  which  with  mirror  vies, 
The  Star  delights  to  fondly  scan 
The  twilight  heaven's  reflected  dyes. 
The  orchard  this  of  Coquelin. 

Don  Cesar  now  has  jacket  on; 

While  Harpagon  his  vice  defies, 

And  redemands  his  miroton ;  * 

Sweet  Agnes  dreams,  somewhat  more  wise; 

*  Miroton  is  a  dish  of  minced  beef  and  onions. 
[   105  ] 


Of  crawfish  Perdican  makes  prize; 
When  tinkle,  tinkle,  rings  Argan, 
To  do  his  will  each  swiftly  flies.  .  .  . 
The  orchard  this  of  Coquelin. 

ENVOY 

Prince,  princesses,  we  here  devise 
Some  eves  of  golden-tissued  plan, 
And  real  the  sun  that  walks  our  skies! 
The  orchard  this  of  Coquelin. 


LOVE 

O  Love,  thou  greatest  solvent  life  can  know! 
In  thy  vast  sea  the  bitterest  pangs  of  woe, 
The  hardest  flint  of  trial  or  of  pain, 
Dissolve  and  lose  all  mischief  of  their  bane. 


[   106  ] 


FROM  A  WINNOWER  OF  GRAIN  TO  THE 
WINDS 

(AFTER  JOACHIM  DU  BELLAY) 

Nimble  troop,  to  you 

That  on  light  pinion  through 
The  world  forever  pass, 
And  with  a  murmuring  sweet 
Where  shade  and  verdure  meet 
Toss  gently  leaf  and  grass, 

I  give  these  violets, 

Lilies  and  flowerets, 
And  roses  here  that  blow, 
All  these  red-blushing  roses 
Whose  freshness  now  uncloses, 
And  these  rich  pinks  also. 

With  your  soft  breath  now  deign 
To  fan  the  spreading  plain, 
And  fan,  too,  this  retreat, 
Whilst  I  with  toil  and  strain 
Winnow  my  golden  grain 
In  the  day's  scorching  heat. 

[   107  ] 


THE    HOMERIC    COMBAT 

(AFTER  LECONTE  DE  LISLE) 

The  same  as  in  the  sun  when  swarms  of  monstrous 

flies 

The  hides  of  slaughtered  bulls  innumerous  cover  o'er, 
Beyond  their  ships  the  men,  with  hair  long-streaming, 

pour 
In  whirlwind  wrath  and  clamor  raging  to  the  skies. 

All  mix  in  tumult  dire:    mouths  hoarse  with  desperate 

cries, 
Loud  din  of  blows,  the  live,  and  they  that  breathe  no 

more, 

Stallions  uprearing  wild,  void   chariots   sprent  with  gore, 
And  levin-flashing  shields  in  thunderous  fall  and  rise. 

With  burning  gaze,  and  head  with  writhing  reptiles 

crowned, 
The  yelping  Gorgon  grinds  her  teeth  as  sweeps  she 

round 
The  awful  plain  where  blood  exhales  unceasing  reek. 


[   108  1 


Zeus,  furious,  rises  then  upon  his  golden  pave, 

And  all  the  mighty  Gods,  heroically  brave, 

Into  the  combat  plunge  from  the  cloud's  topmost  peak. 

SUNBRIGHT    HERCULES 

(AFTER  LECONTE  DE  LISLE) 

O  pang-born  Tamer  who  as  swaddled  infant  killed 
The  Night's  fell  Dragons!    O  thou  Warrior,  Lion-Heart, 
Who  pierced  bane-breathing  Hydra  with  thy  burning  dart 
Where  poisonous  mist  and  mire  their  livid  horrors 

spilled ; 

And  who  with  flawless  sight  of  old  saw  Centaurs  start 
At  precipices'  verge  and  wheel  with  rearing  breast! 
Of  all  the  genial  Gods,  the  eldest,  fairest,  best! 
O  purifier  King,  who  through  thy  glorious  days, 
Made,  as  so  many  torches,  from  the  East  to  West, 
The  sacrificial  fire  on  every  summit  blaze! 
Thy  golden  quiver's  void,  the  Shade's  at  last  thy  goal. 
Hail  Glory  of  the  Air!    All  vainly  dost  thou  tear, 
With  thy  convulsive  hands  where  flames  in  rivers  roll, 
The  bloody  clouds  which  wreathe  thy  pyre  divine,  and 

there 
In  purple  whirlwind  now  thou  yieldest  up  thy  soul! 

[   109  ] 


NATURE 

(AFTER  CHARLES  BAUDELAIRE) 

Nature  a  temple  is,  from  whose  live  pillars  rise 
Voices  that  seem  at  times  but  from  confusion  drawn, 
And  where  through  maze  of  symbols  man  plods  on 

and  on 
Beneath  familiar  look  of  their  close-watching  eyes. 

Like  long-drawn  echoing  sounds  in  far-off  distance 

*       heard, 

Immingling  sombrous,  deep,  in  oneness  to  unite, 

Vast  as  the  endless  dark,  vast  as  the  endless  light, 

Sounds,  hues  and  odors  give  each  other  answering  word. 

It  breathes  a  perfume  fresh  as  skin  of  little  child, 
'Tis  sweet  as  hautboy's  note,  as  green  as  prairie's  breast, 
—  With  complex,  changing  forms  in  triumph's  richness 
piled ; 

So  infinite  no  bound  its  regions  can  invest; 

Like  amber,  benzoin,  musk,  like  every  fragrant  thing 

That  all  the  joys  of  sense  and  of  the  spirit  sing. 


THE    AXE 

(AFTER  HENRI  DE  REGNIER) 

Listen.     Upon  the  stones  the  icy  wind  full  drear 
Makes  slowly,  surely  sharp  —  workman  no  eye  can  see  — 
Its  norther's  bills  and  scythes  as  keen  as  steel  can  be. 
Listen.     'Tis  Time's  dread  step  that  on  the  road  we 
hear. 

Listen.     Afar  e'en  now  the  flowers  are  stripped  and  sere; 
The  neighboring  mead's  a-cold;    and  this  majestic  tree 
At  breath  so  murderous  shakes  and  shudders  fearsomely; 
While  trickles  drop  by  drop    its    Dryad's  life-blood  dear. 

The  woodmen,  binding  bark  and  fagots,  wend  their  way, 
Alas!    thy  towering  stature  and  thy  strength  to  slay; 
Thine  own  shade  marks  the  hour  for  thee  to  be  laid  low; 

But  when  some  autumn  eve  is  proud  to  see  thee  die 
Amid  thy  golden  limbs  that  all  dismembered  lie, 
Then  calmly,  grandly  fall  beneath  the  axe's  blow. 


iii 


IN    UNION    SQUARE,    SAN    FRANCISCO 

In  joysome  strength  as  by  supreme  decree, 
In  grace  and  beauty  such  as  few  can  own, 
Superbly  poises  on  her  columned  stone 
Our  loved,  renowned  Lady  of  Victory. 

One  hand  holds  high  the  trident  of  the  sea, 

And  one,  the  wreath  for  him  by  fame  far  blown, 
While  round  her  shaft  wide   spreads  a  verdurous  zone 
Where  peace  reclines  in  calm  serenity. 

Yet  here  misfortune's  children  in  defeat 
Despairing  drone  the  jewelled  hours  away, 
And  hopeless  mourn  the  unreturning  years.  .  .  . 

How  wretched  those  whose  weary,  trammelled  feet 
Can  never  reach  achievement's  crowning  day 
When  every  air  throbs  deep  with  victory's  cheers ! 


[112] 


IN    SPRINGTIME 

What  azure  fills  the  genial  skies; 
What  fresh  and  balmy  breezes  rise 
With  rapture  on  their  magic  wings; 
How  teems  the  earth  with  fragrant  things, 
How  sweet  the  songsters'  mating  cries! 

'Tis  now  we  look  with  gloating  eyes, 
And  deem  that  every  joy  outvies 
The  joys  of  all  the  gladsome  springs 
Of  other  days. 

Yet  spring  once  wore  still  lovelier  guise, 
When  she  and  I,  in  fondness  wise, 
Knew  every  bliss  that  April  brings  — 
She,  that  dear  one  to  whom  death  clings, 
And  hears  unmoved  the  sobbing  sighs 
Of  other  days. 


IN    TIME    OF    NOVEMBER 

The  leaves  are  falling,  falling, 
By  autumn's  breath  embrowned; 

The  restless  winds  are  calling 
With  ever  saddening  sound; 

And  all  the  long-dead  embers 

Of  all  my  past  Novembers 
Seem  heaped  in  burial  mound. 

But  Memory  joys  in  bringing 
Her  loveliest  blossoms  there, 

With  birds  whose  heartsome  singing 
Dispels  each  dark  despair; 

And  then  those  embers'  fires 

Reflame  with  June's  desires, 
Till  Life  grows  newly  fair. 


114] 


AN   ARIZONA    CACTUS 

The  burning  sun  has  scorched  the  rainless  ground, 
Where  the  volcano's  progeny  still  lie; 
And  yet  beneath  an  unrelenting  sky 
What  creatures  born  to  beauty  may  be  found! 

Just  now  we  caught  a  bird's  melodious  sound 
In  unison  blending  with  the  pine's  low  sigh, 
The  while  a  daisy's  all  unenvious  eye 
Watched  a  near  juniper  with  glory  crowned. 

But  chief  of  all,  behold  yon  crimson  flame 

The  sun  has  kindled  on  the  stone's  gray  breast 
Within  the  Cactus's  exulting  heart  .... 

Beside  thy  light  all  others  seem  but  tame ;  — 
Thou  desert-torch,  thou  beauty's  topmost  crest, 
No  voice  could  sing  how  wonderful  thou  art. 


UNDER    A    PINE    AT    THE    GRAND    CANYON 

Beneath    a    friendly,    towering    pine  we  lay,  — 
Its  sun-smit  needles  dancing  in  their  bright, 
Gem-glittering  sheen,  —  and  breathed  the  deep  delight 
That  streamed  ecstatic  through  the  veins  of  day. 

Below,  the  awesome  canyon's  vast  array 
Swam  silent  in  its  sea  of  azure  light, 
While  far  beyond,  within  our  wondering  sight, 
The  desert  stretched  inimitably  gray. 

Above  us  screamed  a  rapture-hearted  jay; 

And  while  the  breeze  swept  music  to  our  ears, 
Whose  murmurs  deepened  all  the  joys  of  rest, 

Dream's  noiseless  pinions  wafted  us  away, 
Beyond  the  toils  and  tumults  of  the  years, 
To  purple-glowing  Islands  of  the  Blest. 


r  "6 1 


TO    THE    GRAND    CANYON 

Upon  thy  lofty  rim  we  breathless  stand, 
As  thy  stupendous,  myriad  structures  glow 
With  color's  opulence,  while  far  below 
The  raging  river  seems  a  slender  band. 

Thou  feignest  thou  art  eternal,  yet  thy  grand, 
Unrivalled  palaces  will  surely  go 
In  wreck  adown  the  ages  as  they  flow, 
While  other  beauties  will  their  place  command. 

Time  is  for  man  alone,  and  not  for  Him 
Who  bade  the  light  forevermore  to  be, 
And  thee  in  all  its  amethyst  to  swim. 

The  Lord  that  fashioned  us  has  fashioned  thee, 
And  as  we  put  our  puny  hands  in  thine, 
We  thrill  to  feel  that  we  are  both  divine. 


IN    THE    PETRIFIED    FOREST,    ARIZONA 

All  round  us  here,  in  myriad  number  strown, 
The  monstrous  trunks,  great  chips  and  splinters  lie, 
Of  great-armed  trees  that  once  besought  the  sky, 
Changed  to  bright  jewels  of  enduring  stone. 

What  eons  on  slow-pacing  wings  have  flown 

Since  first  their  verdure  caught  the  sun's  fond  eye, 
And  since  transfiguring  nature  bade  them  die, 
To  rise  resplendent  in  this  desert  lone. 

What  glorious  death  was  theirs,  if  death  it  be :  — 
To  live  in  newer  loveliness,  and  light 
The  solitude  with  love-enkindling  ray; 

The  toad's  and  lizard's  beauty  they  may  see, 
With  many  a  bloom's,  behold  the  eagle's  flight, 
And  on  all  hearts  the  hand  of  wonder  lay. 


A    LIZARD    OF    THE    PETRIFIED    FOREST 

Upon  an  age-worn,  upright  stone 

Of  gems  that  once  had  been  a  part 

Of  some  great  tree's  rejoicing  heart 

A  Lizard,  motionless  and  lone, 

A  glowing,  living  emerald  shone 

Of  such  encrusted,  radiant  sheen, 

He  reigned  the  monarch  of  the  scene  — 

A  creature  nature's  hand  had  done 

When  wrought  the  earth,  and  air,  and  sun, 

In  most  harmonious  unison. 

He  viewed  us,  as  we  passed  him  by, 

With  calm  and  yet  with  questioning  eye, 

But  moveless  still,  as  though  the  stone 

Were  portion  of  his  being's  own, 

And  voiceless  as  the  forest  is, 

Whose  jewelled  ruins  all  are  his. 

The  desert  seemed  to  hold  him  there 

As  one  of  her  supremest  fair, 

As  one  to  whom  our  souls  should  owe 

The  best  that  beauty's  love  can  know, 

And  with  her  prideful  voice  to  say, 

"  See  how  I  gem  my  breast  of  gray ! " 


THE    SAWMILL 

The  demon  Sawmill  cried,  I  lack  for  food 

Wherewith  to  cram  this  craving  maw  of  mine, 

That  spite  of  nature  and  of  law  divine 

Would  gorge  on  all  that's  grandest  in  the  wood. 

Then  they  who  madly  serve  the  monster's  good, 
Mid  jocund  laughter,  slew  a  towering  pine, 
As  bright-eyed,  cheery  morn  with  flaming  sign 
Awoke  to  life  the  slumbering  solitude. 

For  immemorial  years  this  fallen  one 

Had  been  so  loved  by  earth,  and  air,  and  sun, 
He  seemed  with  beauty  for  the  ages  clad ; 

And  as  his  massive  trunk  and  members  lie 
Dissevered  and  a  wreck,  we  marvel  why 
The  demon  and  its  slaves  can  still  be  glad. 


[   120  ] 


IN    JEFFERSON    SQUARE,    SAN    FRANCISCO 

Beneath  the  maple's  wide-spread  canopy 
In  Spring's  fresh  garb  miraculously  dight, 
I  restful  sit  and  muse  as  morning's  light 
Still  newly  trembles  in  the  heart  of  me. 

Adown  the  long,  embowered  arcades  I  see 
The  children  schoolward  wend,  with  hope  all  bright, 
And  many  a  wretch  from  life's  despairing  fight, 
That  here  would  soothe  his  aching  misery. 

The  waves  of  traffic,  rolling  loud  near  by, 
Cannot  persuade  me  now  so  much  as  these 
Intrepid  sparrows  that  around  me  play; 

And  here  with  them,  and  with  this  radiant  sky, 
As  balmy  breezes  stir  the  whispering  trees, 
I  pause  and  dream  all  carking  cares  away. 


[     121 


MAN    AND    TREE 

We  found  ourselves  within  a  woodland  maze, 
Where  royal  redwoods  once  held  splendrous  reign; 
But  years  agone  their  noblest  had  been  slain, 
Till  devastation  ruled  the  sighing  days; 

And  there  we  fixed  our  sadly  wandering  gaze 
On  one  huge  trunk  of  beauty's  grandest  strain, 
Whose  wonder-breathing  life,  destroyed  in  vain, 
Seemed  mocking  man  and  all  his  ruthless  ways. 

And  over  and  around  it  twined  at  will, 

As  though  the  murdered  dead  again  to  kill, 
Vines  that  dealt  poison  from  each  venomed  pore. 

Its  human  brother's  fate  is  oft  the  same : 
When  some  brave  soul  is  struck,  to  rise  no  more, 
What  baneful  tongues  delight  to  stab  his  name. 


[    122    ] 


TO  THE  GRAND  CANYON  OF  THE  COLORADO 

We  breathless  view  thee  as  a  thing  that's  living, 
Filled  with  thine  own  all  silent-moving  blood, 

No  less  than  are  thy  furred  and  feathered  creatures, 
Nor  than  thy  roaring,  wonder-working  flood ;  — 

And  truth,  when  filled  with  light's  empurpling  wine, 

Who  then  can  doubt  thy  life  to  be  divine? 

Or  when  mysterious  dawn  creeps  o'er  the  desert, 
To  fold  thee  in  her  wide-embracing  arms, 

And  all  thy  palaces,  and  domes,  and  towers, 
Tremble  with  seeming  new-created  charms, 

While  Navajo,  by  her  in  passing  kissed, 

Serenely  glows  a  flawless  amethyst. 


[   123  ] 


WITH    MEMORY 

'Tis  Memory  steers  me  as  my  boat  drifts  by 
The  banks  with  blossoms  prodigally  gay, 
While  far  and  near  with  many  a  carolling  lay 
The  mating  songsters  fill  the  earth  and  sky. 

Here  let  me  stop,  and  'neath  this  elm-tree  lie, 

Where  boyhood's  moments  passed  like  dreams  away, 
And  once  more  watch  the  sun's  expiring  ray 
Light  the  cows  homeward  from  the  pasture  nigh. 

Their  tinkling  bells  die  out  along  the  lane; 
The  gloaming  slowly  deepens  into  night, 
And  mid  the  darkness  Memory  flits  from  me. 

Would  she  had  longer  stayed;  but  her  delight 
Has  sweetly  soothed  the  Present's  piercing  pain, 
And  bade  me  hope  for  worthier  days  to  be. 


1 124 


A    REMEMBRANCE    OF    AUTUMN    WOODS 

I  do  remember  in  the  long  ago 

How  flamed  the  maple  'gainst  the  clouded  sky, 
While  oak  and  hickory  as  with  human  sigh 
Saw  all  the  ground  their  dying  leaves  bestrow. 

Ah,  then  the  pulse  of  things  beat  sad  and  low, 
And  silently  the  shrivelled  brook  passed  by 
Where  wakening  Winter  seemed  so  very  nigh, 
We  faintly  heard  his  boreal  trumpet  blow. 

But  then  what  joy  rapaciously  to  loot 

The  pawpaw's  and  persimmon's  luscious  fruit, 
That  ripening  frost  had  lovingly  passed  o'er, 

As  walnuts  from  their  mother  trees  fell  down, 
On  many  an  eve  the  jocund  feast  to  crown, 
With  jennetings  all  mellow  to  the  core. 


I     I  2  5     I 


MY    BOHEMIA 

A  FANTASY 
(AFTER  ARTHUR  RIMBAUD) 

With  fists  in  tattered  pockets  forth  I  strayed, — 

My  great-coat,  too,  not  far  from  raggery,  — 

Beneath  the  skies,  O  Muse,  all  true  to  thee; 

And  there  what  radiant  love-dreams  round  me  played! 

My  only  breeches  gaped  with  holes  as  I, 

Poor,  little  dreamer,  many  a  rhyme  dropped  where 

My  footsteps  fared;  mine  inn  the  heaven's  Great  Bear, 

'Neath  stars  whose  soft,  sweet  rustlings  filled  the  sky. 

I  heard  them  as  I  sat  by  roadsides  when 
September's  eves  were  steeped  in  balm;  and  then, 
As  with  strong  wine,  my  face  was  wet  with  dew; 
And  rhyming  mid  strange  glooms  a  lyre  I  made 
Of  my  torn  shoes'  elastics,  worn  and  frayed, 
As  near  my  heart  my  wearied  foot  I  drew. 


GEORGE  MOORE,  in  his  "Impressions  and  Opinions,"  states  that1 
RIMBAUD  wrote  the  sonnet  the  version  of  which  from  the  French  is  ' 
here    given,    when    he    was    fifteen    years    of    age,    and    that    its    first 
publication  was  in  the  book  with  title  as  above. 


[   126  ] 


TO    BEAUTY 

What  joy  to  watch  thee  as  thy  wings  with  zest 
Bear  tremulous  Dawn  along  the  gladsome  height, 
Or  when  with  languid  beat  they  shed  their  light 
Of  paling  crimson  on  the  saddened  West; 

To  see  thee  flitting,  as  a  seraph  blest, 

Through  dale  and  wood  the  meanest  to  bedight, 
O'er  pools  deep-bosomed  brooding,  and  with  Night 
Lying  mid  splendors  of  her  vasty  breast! 

The  canvas  throbs  beneath  thy  deathless  art, 
While  at  thy  word  the  Sculptor  newly  wakes 
To  sudden  life  the  eon-slumbering  stone; 

And  when  thou  leadest  to  the  Poet's  heart 
Thy  flock  of  airy  dreams,  he  raptured  makes 
The  song  all  ages  cherish  as  their  own. 


1 127 


TO    THE    OWL    THAT    ALIGHTED    ABOVE    THE 

PICTURE    OF    ATHENS    HUNG    IN    ONE 

OF   THE    LECTURE    HALLS    OF 

RUTGERS    COLLEGE 

IN    MEMORY    OF   THE   LATE    PROFESSOR    JACOB    COOPER   OF   RUTGERS    COLLEGE 

O  thou,  wise  bird  Athene  made  her  own, 
Did  instinct's  pulses  beat  within  thy  breast 
When  in  this  college  hall  thy  wings  found  rest 
Above  the  picture  of  her  matchless  throne? 

Or  wast  thou  here  at  friendly  moment  blown 
By  breeze  favonian,  to  remind  us  lest 
Our  faith  in  old  ideals,  so  long  professed, 
Be  like  the  Parthenon's  columns  —  overthrown? 

It  matters  not;  we  take  thee  as  thou  art, 

And  house  thee  safe  and  warm  in  every  heart, 
For  ne'er  before  was  spectacle  like  this; 

And  now  we  feel  the  centuries  backward  rolled, 
While  in  supernal  splendor  as  of  old 
Upsoars  the  temple-crowned  Acropolis. 


ULYSSES    AND    CIRCE 

In  sunless  vale  the  Circean  palace  stood 
A  marble  wonder,  where,  mid  luring  song 
And  drowseful,  fragrant  sweets  men  lingered  long, 
To  drain  their  hearts  and  souls  of  every  good. 

As  wrought  she  at  her  web  in  singing  mood, 
All  unsuspicious  came  Ulysses'  throng, 
Whom,  like  the  rest,  though  bearded  men  and  strong, 
She  changed  to  beasts  with  bestial  form  endued. 

Then  rose  Troy's  hero  in  tremendous  ire, 

And  scourged  foul  Circe  with  such  whips  of  fire, 
She  helpless  crouched  within  her  poisonous  den; 

And  forth  from  out  the  wallow  of  their  sty 
His  rescued  fellows  sprang  with  sparkling  eye, 
Once  more  bold-hearted,  undespairing  men. 


[   129  ] 


ICARUS 

At  last  the  waxen  wings  were  all  complete. 
Then  spake  wise  Daedalus  unto  his  son, 
Who,  hot  with  pride  that  now  escape  seemed  won, 
Longed  for  his  pinions  to  supremely  beat 

In  loftiest  waves  of  air:    "My  boy,  most  sweet 
Of  everything  the  Gods  for  me  have  done, 
Bridle  thy  mad  desires,  lest  they  outrun 
Discretion's  course  and  dash  thee  to  defeat"  .... 

On  them  King  Minos  gazed  with  wondering  eye 
As  swift  they  sailed  through  morn's  auroral  sky 
From  him  and  Crete;  then  smote  his  breast  with  glee, 

As  upward  soared  vain  Icarus  to  the  sun, 

To  downward,  headlong  plunge,  a  wingless  one, 
Into  the  jaws  of  the  devouring  sea. 


[  130  ] 


THE    DEEPEST    POEM 

The  deepest  poem  is  the  one  we  feel, 

And  not  the  one  that  language  can  reveal; 

Oh,  times  there  are  when  music  stirs  the  soul 

Beyond  mere  words  to  measure  or  control, 

And  myriad  thoughts  flit  ghostlike  through  the  brain 

That  all  the  tongues  of  earth  could  never  chain. 

Let  artist  paint  with  ne'er  so  deep  a  speech, 

Let  poet  sing  with  all  that  can  beseech, 

Great  worlds  there  are  they  cannot  hope  to  reach;  — 

But  souls  like  theirs  are  born  to  greatly  live, 

And  who  may  know  what  life  on  life  may  give? 


THE    BROOK 

(AFTER  THEOPHILE  GAUTIER) 

Between  two  stones,  in  shady  nook, 
From  spring  that  oozes  near  a  lake, 
In  merriest  humor  runs  a  brook 
As  though  some  far-off  goal  to  make. 

It  murmurs:    Oh,  what  joy  is  mine! 
Below  the  ground  what  night  to  see, 
And  now  my  banks  with  verdure  shine, 
While  skies  admire  themselves  in  me. 

The  azure  myosotis  cries 

To  me,  Forget  me  not,  I  pray! 

I  feel  the  tails  of  dragon-flies 

My  bosom  scratch  in  sportive  play. 

From  out  my  cup  the  bird  drinks  free; 
And  after  winding  far,  who  knows 
But  that  the  vales,  rocks,  towers  will  be 
Bathed  by  my  wave  that  grandly  flows? 


132 


I  shall  embroider  with  my  spume 
The  bridge  and  quay's  granitic  wall, 
And  bear  great  steamers  as  they  fume 
Toward  ocean  vast,  the  end  of  all. 

Thus  talks  the  brook  in  chattering  craze; 

In  it  a  hundred  projects  grow; 

Like  water  boiling  in  a  vase 

No  self-restraint  its  soul  can  know. 

But  tomb  and  cradle  stand  anear; 
The  giant  dies  a  pygmy  small: 
To  trouble  born,  the  brook  falls  sheer 
Into  the  lake  that  drinks  it  all. 


[  133  ] 


ROME 

A  strange-eyed  Eagle  fiercely  tore  its  way 
From  out  the  breast  of  Latium,  and  began 
At  once  to  feed  upon  the  blood  of  man, 
And  grow  enormously  from  day  to  day. 

Its  maddened  craving  nought  had  power  to  stay, 
Though  down  its  throat  the  gore  in  rivers  ran, 
And  though  so  hugely  grown  its  wings  did  span 
The  world  itself  that  trembled  'neath  their  sway. 

At  last  made  weak  from  surfeiting  on  woes, 
And  urged  no  more  by  War's  infuriate  cry, 
The  monstrous  thing  was  rended  by  its  foes; 

And  yet  it  died  not,  nor  can  ever  die, 

For  they  that  felt  the  mangling  of  its  claw 
Still  conquered  lie  beneath  its  deathless  Law. 


[   134  ] 


THE    RUSSIAN    BEAR 

(1905) 

How  sinks  his  heart  within  his  trembling  frame, — 
This  evil-breeding,  monstrous  Russian  Bear,  — 
As  now  he  sees  his  plundered  minions  dare 
All  deaths  and  agonies  in  Freedom's  name; 

As  now  he  counts  the  crimsoned  years  of  shame, 
That  his  engorging  vultures  of  despair 
Have  feasted  on  the  children  of  his  care, 
To  blaze  his  deeds  with  infamy  of  fame. 

About  him  rage  unconquerable  fires, 

Blown  by  the  breath  of  chainless,  vast  desires, 
While  blood  rolls  round  him  in  a  mighty  sea; 

From  out  whose  seething  foam  God  grant  may  rise, 
In  newer  strength,  before  his  wondering  eyes, 
The  dazzling  Goddess,  hope-crowned  Liberty. 


135 


IN  A  STUDIO 


SONNETS    SUGGESTED  BY   PICTURES    PAINTED  BY 
WILLIAM    KEITH 


This  is  his  studio;   here  with  brush  and  brain 
He  fills  the  hours;    and  here  unnumbered  things 
Of  beauty  rise  on  Art's  unwearied  wings, 
To  settle  in  the  heart  and  there  remain. 

Here  Color  leads  her  myriad-tinted  train 
Through  fadeless  fields;   in  turn  each  season  brings 
Its  harvest;   while  Imagination  flings 
Her  gems  amid  the  forest's  mighty  fane. 

O  wondrous  garden,  where  such  wonders  grow, 
Thou  art,  indeed,  a  place  of  bloom  where  dream, 
Upon  ambrosia  feeding,  smiles  at  death; 

And  where  ensconced  from  life's  tumultuous  show, 
The  soul,  in  joysome  liberty  supreme, 
Draws  restful,  uncontaminated  breath. 


[  138  ] 


SOUND    AND    COLOR 

(THE  PAINTER  SPEAKS) 

Not  only  sound,  but  color,  deeply  lies 

Within  this  gong  a  Daimio  made  his  own 

When  glory  claimed  him  in  the  years  long-flown  — 

Ay,  all  the  hues  of  seas,  and  lands,  and  skies; 

And  now  I  thrill  beneath  its  every  tone, 
From  war's  horrific  din  to  love's  low  sighs, 
Until  my  canvas  in  melodious  guise 
A  jewel  seems  on  Music's  throbbing  zone. 

Ah,  yesterday  it  struck  a  note  so  sweet, 
So  suave  and  soft,  I  felt  as  ne'er  before 
The  gracious  moonlight  blessing  all  the  earth; 

And  now  behold  it  in  my  picture  beat! 

Canst  thou  not  feel  it  strangely  stealing  o'er 
Thy  soul  with  something  of  a  newer  birth? 


[   139  ] 


THE    SHEPHERDESS 

How  lightly  fall  the  footsteps  of  the  Day 
In  nearing  now  the  chambers  of  the  west, 
As  loth  the  woodland  spirit  to  molest, 
That  broods  in  quietude  the  hours  away. 

And  what  of  her  on  whom  the  shadows  play? 
Is  hopeless  love  her  bosom's  fearsome  guest, 
Or  tends  she  here  the  sheep,  all  unoppressed 
By  weight  of  thought,  and  free  of  care  as  they? 

It  matters  not:  she  takes  her  radiant  part 

With  sky,  and  tree,  and  pool,  in  this  fair  scene 
Where  Beauty  gives  her  brood  still  newer  sheen 

Beauty,  the  sovran  sorceress  of  the  heart, 
That  garbs  no  less  the  tiniest  blade  of  green 
Than  grandest  structure  of  the  poet's  art. 


DAWN 

Alluring  Night  soft  folds  her  starry  wing, 
For  now  the  sun  beats  down  her  vast  array, 
As  all  along  his  unresisted  way 
His  dazzling  brilliances  their  glory  fling. 

These  pulsing  clouds  announce  the  conqueror  King; 
Yet  not  with  banner  blazed  with  ruby  ray, 
But  one  whose  opal  light  of  lustrous  gray 
Gives  strange,  fresh  beauty  to  each  dawn-kissed  thing. 

The  birds  have  scarce  aroused,  yet  man  is  here, 
To  lay  the  dewy  grass  beneath  his  knife, 
And  bear  it  off  upon  the  near-by  wain. 

Thou  wondrous  New-born  Day;  what  hope,  what  fear, 
Lie  coiled  within  thy  breast;  what  peace,  what  strife, 
And  what  ambitions  that  are  worse  than  vain! 


EVENSONG 

Day's  glare  and  noise  are  done  for  you  and  me; 
Its  dying  glories  tremble  in  the  west; 
The  stars  are  near;  and  Evening's  tranquil  rest 
With  balmful  softness  fills  the  wood  and  lea. 

All  shadeful  lies  the  pool's  untroubled  breast 
Near  where  the  shepherdess,  full  fair  to  see, 
Walks  with  her  sheep  as  gently  sighing  she 
Builds  fairy  dreams  of  him  beloved  the  best. 

And  as  the  twilight  slowly  draws  anear, 
What  all-pervading  tones  we  seem  to  hear 
As  deep-voiced  requiem  to  the  parting  day; 

For  Nature's  harmonies  are  soaring  high 
In  vesper  hymn  against  the  very  sky, 
With  dream  and  ecstasy  to  lead  the  way. 


1 142 


ON    WATCHING    THE    ARTIST    PAINT    A 
PICTURE    OF    MOUNT    SHASTA 

With  what  sure  deftness  do  I  see  you  rear 
This  mass  of  Shasta  in  the  azure  air, 
Enrobing  him  with  snow  so  purely  fair, 
Unmelted  it  shall  lie  for  many  a  year. 

And  what  huge  boulders,  glacier-carved,  sprawl  here, 
Impressed  with  sudden  strength;  while  as  we  stare, 
Breathless  and  rapt,  far  pines  uptowering  dare 
The  winding  canyon's  precipices  sheer. 

Ah,  mid  this  magic  comes  again  the  time 
When  Shasta  loomed  before  me  day  by  day, 
And  alway  with  a  seeming  new  surprise; 

But  where  is  she  who  in  her  beauty's  prime 
Beheld  with  me  his  glory?  —  passed  away 
Far  from  all  reach  of  earthly  ears  and  eyes. 


A    VISION 

Sweet  Morn  trips  lightsomely  along  the  sky, 
Awakening  earth  and  all  the  things  of  air, 
Whose  trees,  joy-hearted,  murmurous  greetings  bear 
To  the  far  lake  and  bloom-gemmed  grasses  nigh. 

Some  pigeons,  snowy-white,  encircling  fly 

Above  two  maidens,  —  loveliest  creatures  there,  — 
Who  send  their  dreams  on  voyage  calm  and  fair 
To  Love's  own  harbors  that  resplendent  lie. 

O  blessed  Morn !  —  Thy  wealth  no  garish  day 
In  heartless  mock  can  ever  take  away, 
Nor  these  fond  doves  to  ravening  ravens  turn. 

O  fortunate  maidens !  —  Alien  to  all  tears, 

Your  beauty  shall  not  fade,  but  brighter  burn, 
To  consecrate  your  Vision  to  the  years. 


THE  RETURN  FROM  THE  RAID 

With  rapine  glutted  he  returns  once  more, 
Trailed  by  his  vulturine,  marauding  crew; 
But  not  the  roisterous  wassail  to  renew, 
Nor  on  some  foe  to  lock  the  dungeon  door; 

For  lo,  there  loom,  his  blasted  sight  before, 
Consuming  flames  that  all  the  sky  imbue, 
To  light  his  castle's  ruins  as  they  strew 
The  scene  that  devastation  revels  o'er. 

When  this  bold  knight  rode  forth  to  rob  and  slay, 
He  sweetly  sang  a  merry  roundelay, 
Nor  thought  of  her  his  baseness  had  betrayed; 

And  now  we  fancy  seated  on  a  stone, 

Downfallen  from  its  prideful  tower,  the  lone, 
Distracted  figure  of  a  hapless  maid. 


THE    MOUNTAIN 

What  wrecks  of  Time  and  Storm  are  crumbling  here! 
The  rocks  that  seemed  eternal  shattered  lie, 
And  pines  that  sang  their  glorias  to  the  sky 
In  mute  dismemberment  stretch  prone  and  drear. 

Beneath  this  gloomful  shade,  wide  spreading  near, 
What  hidden  things  in  loneliness  may  sigh, 
What  spirits  of  the  past  may  wander  by, 
Their  cheeks  bedewed  with  unavailing  tear ! 

But  look  beyond:    the  towering  summits  glow 
With  grand  magnificence  of  dazzling  light, 
That  tints  with  rainbow  hues  their  bosoming  snow; 

And  as  we  gaze,  a  more  than  mortal  might 
Lifts  the  rapt  soul  from  all  the  glooms  below 
To  faiths  that  blaze  immaculately  bright. 


PRAYER 

All  things  here  seem  subdued  to  silent  prayer; 
The  clouds  hang  moveless  in  the  sombre  sky, 
The  brook  scarce  whispers  as  it  ripples  by, 
And  stilled  the  restless  pulses  of  the  air. 

The  stately  trees  a  fading  splendor  wear, 

As  now  the  westering  sun's  last  gleamings  die 
Around  a  man,  who  views  with  saintly  eye 
The  vast  distresses  that  his  fellows  bear. 

What  centuried  problems  on  this  prophet  weigh, 
As  mid  the  myriad  mysteries  of  it  all 
Within  this  temple  he  is  fain  to  pray! 

Here  babbling  laughter  flees  beyond  recall, 
While  grief,  sore  struck  with  pangs  of  countless  years, 
Seems  bending  low  above  a  bowl  of  tears. 


1 147 1 


PROMISE 

The  shower  has  ceased,  yet  big  with  coming  rain 

The  light-fringed  clouds  loom  o'er  the  gladsome  hills, 
While  all  the  sunbeam-glinted  valley  thrills 
With  expectation  of  its  harvest  grain. 

This  fresh,  sweet  soil  but  just  upturned  is  fain 
Its  seed  to  press;    the  orchard  blossom  spills 
Its  fragrance  round;  and  rising  incense  fills 
The  air  to  gratitude's  symphonic  strain. 

O  Earth,  dear,  bounteous  mother  of  us  all, 
From  thee  we  come,  and  at  the  last  we  fall 
Into  thy  softly  folding  arms  to  rest; 

And  as  the  Master  spreads  thy  beauties  here, 
We  seem  to  lie  serenely  on  thy  breast, 
With  Promise  gently  soothing  every  fear. 


THE    UNFINISHED    PORTRAIT 

I  cannot  strike  the  color  for  this  eye, 

Nor  bend  the  arch  above  it ;  —  ah,  to-day 
My  brush's  cunning,  do  the  best  I  may, 
In  heartless  mockery  seems  to  pass  me  by. 

Thus  spake  the  Master  as  he  stood  anigh 
His  easel,  where  a  young  man's  portrait  lay 
So  near  to  perfectness  it  seemed  to  say, 
Give  me  not  up  ere  once  again  you  try. 

Then  with  a  fury  such  as  genius  knows, 

He  spread  his  pigments  all  that  portrait  o'er 
Until  a  landscape  shone  divinely  there; 

And  in  the  glories  of  its  great  repose 
Imagination  feels,  as  ne'er  before, 
Some  hidden  spirit  breathe  through  all  its  air. 


M9 1 


WILLIAM    KEITH 

All  bottomless  his  well  of  Beauty  seems: 

For  years  his  golden  buckets  have  been  drawn 

From  out  its  depths,  yet  on,  and  yet  still  on, 

They  rise  full-brimmed  with  jewels  of  his  dreams  — 

Jewels  whose  infinitely-colored  beams 

Reveal  each  way  that  Nature's  feet  have  gone 
In  blossoming  joy  from  dawn  to  dewy  dawn, 
Through  skies  and  mountains,  meadows,  woods  and 
streams. 

Ah,  could  the  creatures  he  has  painted  stir 

With  languaged  voice,  what  paeans  would  they  raise 
To  their  deep-loving,  great  interpreter. 

How  feeble  then  would  seem  man's  loudest  praise 
For  him  who  keeps  bright  youth  within  his  heart, 
To  newly  lustre  his  unaging  art. 


ENVOY 


THE    POET    TO    HIS    PEGASUS 

Dear  Pegasus,  attempt  no  more  to  rise; 
'Tis  all  in  vain ;  —  these  uneffectual  wings, 
That  once  we  deemed  were  storm-defying  things, 
Fold  now  forever,  if  you  dare  be  wise.  .  .  . 

But  what  great  dream  was  ours!  —  ranging  the  skies, 
Attent  to  every  melody  that  sings, 
Then  drinking  deep  of  Heliconian  springs 
To  build  impassioned  verse  that  never  dies.  .  .  . 

And  now  the  Sonnet,  that  you  fain  would  bear 
As  best  of  all  the  muse-devoted  fair, 
Despised  and  mocked,  awaits  her  funeral  pyre; 

Where  you  may  see,  as  with  despairing  heart 
You  haul,  hard  straining,  some  brick-laden  cart, 
Her  lovely  body  crumbling  in  the  fire. 


[  153  ] 


SONG    ITS    OWN    REWARD 

(TO  JOHN  MUIR) 

Song  is  its  own  reward,  so  said  to  me 

My  clear-eyed  friend  whose  muse-inspired  prose 
With  joy  of  being  sings  as  on  it  flows, 
Bearing  the  thoughts  that  teach  us  to  be  free; 

Thou  shouldst  not  hush  one  note  of  Poesy 
That  from  Parnassian  heights  rejoicing  blows, 
Though  none  of  all  the  world  its  music  knows, 
Or  knowing  cares  for,  saving  only  thee. 

O  friend,  thou  nursling  of  the  mountain's  breast, 
True  brother  of  the  glacier  and  the  pine, 
'Tis  meet  thy  voice  this  lesson  has  impressed ; 

For  do  not  all  these  noble  kin  of  thine 
Ring  out  forevermore  their  strains  divine 
Though  not  one  soul  may  hearken  to  be  blest! 


[  154 


THE    PASSION    FOR    PERFECTION 

What  deep  desires  are  ours,  what  searching  pains, 
To  find  the  word  we  so  supremely  need; 
To  frame  a  diction  worthy  Art's  great  meed, 
That  winged  with  music  bears  immortal  strains! 

Our  thought  when  bound  in  rhythm  oft  contains 
Such  teasing  imperfections,  that  we  feed 
The  hours  in  their  cure,  then  inly  bleed, 
For  fear  some  vexing  blemish  yet  remains.  .  .  . 

Dear  nymph,  Perfection,  how  thou  dost  elude 
Thy  fond  pursuer !  —  seeming  near,  then  far, 
Enticing  ever  with  allurement  sweet; 

Till  after  trial  many  a  time  renewed, 
He  sees  thee  blaze  a  solitary  star 
In  some  high,  inaccessible  retreat. 


155  j 


PINE    NOT,    NOR    FRET 

Pine  not,  nor  fret: 
The  rains  will  fall, 
The  sun  will  shine, 
The  flowers  still  bloom, 
And  grains  and  fruits 
Their  riches  yield; 
The  wheels  will  turn, 
And  ever  turn, 
And  ships  still  sail, 
And  ever  sail. 
But  do  thy  part, 
With  faith  and  love, 
As  best  thou  canst, 
And  nought  on  earth 
Can  work  thee  ill, 
Or  make  thee  feel 
One  pang  of  fear. 


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